


Passing Ships

by trilliath



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Closeted Character, Jack still goes on to the NHL, M/M, References to past violent hate crime, What if Bitty never came back after Freshman year?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:49:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6663097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliath/pseuds/trilliath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not until he's sprawled on his back in the beginning of the second period, dazed and staring up in search of anything he can focus on to get the rink to stop spinning around him, that he actually looks at the stands. </p><p>So it's surreal when he looks now and his eyes focus on a single face. One that resolves into someone achingly familiar amidst the crush of shouting fans and players starting a fight around him, lit bright and golden from the light reflecting off the ice. </p><p>Someone he-</p><p>He has his hands over his mouth, his body frozen stiff and his dark eyes so wide as he stares back at Jack, so frightened-looking and for a moment Jack has the strangest rush of protectiveness, of a need to check whatever it is that's upsetting Bittle… a man he hasn't seen or heard from in years - until he realizes that Jack's blood on the ice is probably the thing that's upsetting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is happening because apparently my plot bunnies are sadists.  
> It's me, so, you know, I have no idea how quickly updates will come but I figure, better to share my pain with y'all instead of suffering alone.

It's not until he's sprawled on his back in the beginning of the second period, dazed and staring up in search of anything he can focus on to get the rink to stop spinning around him, that he actually looks at the stands. 

Everything feels slow and fuzzy, thousands of people above him as he looks up from the ice. It's strange. He never looks. The others more or less enjoy the attention, use the cheering and the sights of their loved ones to boost them up, or the jeers to light a fire under their competitive natures. 

Jack never looks. Not once, not ever, because no matter how he cuts it, it's just something else to worry about. Bad Bob Zimmerman on the jumbotron, commentators speculating baselessly about his opinions or feelings. Fans who don't know him, girls looking on him with signs proclaiming their readiness to marry a stranger - like somehow they think that's not horribly uncomfortable. And of course there's the hate, the vile things that get spewed when things get tough.

He gets enough of that on the ice.

So it's surreal when he looks now and his eyes focus on a single face. One that resolves into someone achingly familiar amidst the crush of shouting fans and players starting a fight around him, lit bright and golden from the light reflecting off the ice. 

Someone he-

He has his hands over his mouth, his body frozen stiff and his dark eyes so wide as he stares back at Jack, so frightened-looking and for a moment Jack has the strangest rush of protectiveness, of a need to check whatever it is that's upsetting Bittle… a man he hasn't seen or heard from in years - until he realizes that Jack's blood on the ice is probably the thing that's upsetting. 

"Bitty?" he thinks he says, and then shadow falls on him, cutting off the sight so unexpected and he can't quite focus but he's lived on the ice long enough to get what's happening. His ears are ringing a bit still and he makes himself curl in on himself, draw his more breakable limbs closer into his body as the ice-fight turns dog-pile chaotic and stray blades become dangerous. 

He can't make out anything through the buzz and muffled shouting, though the trainer's voices start taking on sharp, snapping tones and suddenly people are clearing away from him and he's out of the shadows and he looks at the stands again but he's lost track of Bittle in the chaos. He's not sure if he'd even really seen him, because he can't even really make out anyone's faces now as the trainers say things to him he doesn't quite follow. He's stumbling on the edge of consciousness, he realizes, head light and faint above the roar of it all.

 

They give up trying to do an on-ice assessment pretty quickly, just strapping him down on a board, which he doesn't resist, and carrying him out to get him to the sudden almost-quiet of the doctor's office just off the tunnel. The strange feeling of needing to go protect someone is still hot under his collar, and the inevitable panic over the game continuing on without him has his heart pounding, but he's been at this as an adult now long enough to know how to handle it. He starts with relaxing his body, and controlling his breathing, and then it's all fairly steady from there as they set him down and carefully take the straps off him, start taking off some of his gear that's getting in the way of them checking him over.

All together it means he shakes off the faint, stunned feeling after just a few moments to breathe. 

"I'm okay," he says finally as he focuses on Michelle and Dr. Hines, the two standing closest in front of him. There's a collective sigh from the rest of the room, other trainers and staff and… yeah, when he turns his head Mixy's there by the door, mouthguard hanging from his lips and looking pale, stick still clutched in his hand and just flat out ignoring anyone who's trying to nudge him back out of the room. 

"Go, I'm good. Go," he says, waving a hand at his rookie as they let him up off the board. There's blood on his arm, he realizes, more than he'd expected, but he gives Mixy a small but firm nod and his teammate finally backs out of the room he's not supposed to be in and goes.

He submits obediently to the checkup Dr. Hines starts, but it's all fine, really. His limbs and joints are completely fine, his spine isn't bruised in the slightest. In fact he's come out of it almost untouched besides his scalp, though his shoulder and one side of his ribs are going to ache a little for the next few days. The cut where his broken helmet had gouged him is not that deep, just needs a few stitches, but it explains why he'd been so light-headed. Those bleed fast and he's never not gotten a bit faint when he loses any noticeable amount of blood. Rans had once told him something about a nerve in the neck or something that explained that.

"That's right, Jack," Dr. Hines says, smiling a bit. "The Vagus nerve. But I think you probably have a bit of a concussion too, since you're normally not this chatty."

He wants to argue, because he wants back on the ice, wants to not let his team down, of course he does, but things are still a little fuzzy around the edges so he just remains silent and accepts the sports drink Michelle brings him. And maybe it's a sign that he's matured in these last five years on NHL ice that he can take the knee and know that it's absolutely the right thing to do without his anxiety and doubt rearing its ugly head.

Besides, they're in Atlanta, playing against the relatively young Racers team that's set up shop here, and the Racers have been skating like they have something to prove, even though they've got no shot at beating the Falconers even if the Falcs took the entire first line off the ice instead of just most of it. He gets it, being the underdog, being the one everybody doubts and needing to defy that weight of expectation, but it's too easy for these sorts of games to turn nasty, which he's gotten first-hand experience of tonight. He just hopes this calms things down.

Coach Rheems sticks his head into the office, face tight, but he relaxes when he sees Jack sitting up and alert again.

"He's done for tonight and probably at least the next game," Dr. Hines says, pausing in the delicate stitching he's doing. "Nasty little cut but looks like he's going to be fine. Mild concussion. Just needs some rest now."

Rheems's eyes flick to Jack's face, brows shifting in what is perhaps surprise when Jack doesn't protest the prognosis, but he nods.

"Alright, glad you're okay Jack. Don't worry, we'll clean up out there just fine, you just stay and rest up."

"Tell them to keep it clean," Jack says firmly, because he's the captain and he knows how seeing the C get taken off the ice can leave the guys riled and reckless.

"You got it," Rheems says and then thumps his palm against the doorframe, cup ring knocking comfortingly against the wood as he departs. The 'kid' that used to get tacked onto statements like that is a distant memory at 30 with two Stanley cup wins and three years as captain of the Falconers under his belt.

But distant memories apparently have a way of hanging around.

As Dr. Hines finishes putting the stitches in and starts bandaging him up, Jack thinks back over the face he'd recognized so absolutely even for just that brief glimpse. He thinks over how little it seems like Bittle's changed in the intervening years. His ginger hair still curls untameably around his ears, he's still small and athletic, though maybe a little bit less of both of those things since Jack last saw him. He's sure there's other changes he didn't catch, but it's still surreal how much hasn’t changed. How strange it seems to know him so viscerally given how quietly and completely he'd disappeared from life at Samwell. He tries to remember if he'd ever heard specifics on why the freshman hadn't come back after that first summer, but all his memory tells him is a vague, "Family Stuff" sort of non-information.

He'd… he remembers he'd been confused. He'd known Bittle had been a bit quiet after that bad hit in the playoffs but he'd seemed okay. He'd gotten the Carlisle, after all, and Jack is pretty sure he has a memory of Bittle in the Haus, red tank-top to match flushed cheeks looking happy as he moved his things in, saying a friendly goodbye for the summer… and then nothing. 

Summer had happened and after he'd gotten back and started talking lineups with the coaches and been told vaguely that Bittle had left the team, Jack had somehow been too caught up in his own drama trying to be a better captain to the new frogs, talking to GMs and his Agent, and a very-stressed-about-LSATs Shitty, to even really think much about the fact that the Haus had stayed the same as it had always been, no indomitable southern whirlwind in evidence shaking things up. And maybe he'd been irritated at first, a little hurt that Bittle had just dropped all of them, but life had moved on as hard and as fast as ever and soon Bittle'd been a distant memory. Just another player who came and went like the hundreds of others Jack's played with over the years. 

But in retrospect, it's almost baffling that he'd slipped away so easily, given how they'd started to click on the ice by that first playoff run, how they'd spent all those early hours one on one in checking practice and how much Bittle had embodied the team spirit, but then, Jack has never been very good at holding onto people.

"I'm gonna go change, head to the hotel," he decides when the doc pronounces him patched up, though really he's more interested in getting to his phone. Shitty might know what'd happened to Bittle, and he has a sudden need to find out that he's okay. 

He has to be, right? He wouldn't be here at the game if he wasn't okay, would he? If that'd really been him and not some random blonde stranger his rattled brain had filled over. But the urge to know is… strong.

He only half listens as Dr. Hines quickly runs down the standard concussion care standards and one of the assistants goes to arrange a car for him. Michelle helps him back to the locker room, carrying his gear that he's scattered since he's fine walking in his stockinged feet the short distance to his stall. But she leaves him be when he starts stripping out of his clothes with a reminder to ice his shoulder before he goes to bed and not to get his bandage wet when he showers.

Instead of hopping right into the water, he sits there in his towel on the bench, fishing his phone out of his duffel pocket and turning it on. The notifications pop up quick, and he skims through them, the various worries and well-wishes from the old guard and family. 

He texts a quick message to his parents, because he knows they'll worry till they hear it directly from him that he's okay, but skips responding to the others for the moment, instead pulling up Shitty's contact and pressing call. It rings three times before there's a rustling sound as the call is answered.

"Jack?" Shitty says quietly, sounding confused.

"I'm alright. A few stitches and a mild concussion, I'll be fine," he says quickly.

"Fuck," Shitty breathes, sounding surprised, and oh… he must not have been watching. 

It's embarrassing that Jack's surprised - it's not as though he doesn't know Shitty is thoroughly busy with his own life as a second year fellow at a prestigious law firm. Just because an old friend from school is playing in the NHL doesn't mean he has time to watch every game. Jack laughs faintly under his breath, closing his eyes. He really should have learned by now how little importance the most important thing in his life really holds for 99% of the world.

"Yeah, it's not… sorry, is this a good time?" he asks, feeling awkward.

"No of course, Jack, shit. I meant to try and catch the game but…"

"It's just the Racers, eh?" Jack says quickly. 

"Yeah but… well. I'm glad you called, glad you're okay. Guess it's later than I thought. I'm just in the law library researching a precedent for a case coming up. I could use a break. Just hang on a sec for me." There's a soft sound of papers rustling, then a muffled side conversation with someone. 

Jack starts to feel the chill of the air on his bare skin, and there's still a little blood on one of his hands, so he heads for the showers, keeping his phone on the side of his head where the gash is to help remind himself not to get either of them wet.

Through the phone he hears the banging of a door and then the soft sounds of city nightlife in the background of Shitty's phone and then he's saying, "Ahhh, fuck me but that feels good to get outside. I mean, look, the air conditioning makes life livable, absolutely, but it's just so… soulless."

"You just miss the green couch," Jack chirps, watching the crimson rinse off his fingers.

"Like you wouldn't believe brah," Shitty agrees. "So… how're you doing? Took a rough check, sounds like. You sure you're okay?"

Jack grunts. "Yeah. I'll be fine, just a bad hit. But that's not really why I called. I…" He sighs, leans against the tiled partition and lets the hot water run over his sore shoulder. "Do you remember Eric Bittle? He was a frog our junior year."

Shitty makes a soft sound Jack can't quite identify. It's like a laugh, but nothing so pleasant. "Bits? Of course I do." He pauses, then adds in an odd tone, "Not an easy guy to forget."

It feels like a rebuke, though he knows Shitty doesn't mean it like that. Jack feels it nonetheless, and he's starting to feel fairly certain he deserves it.

"Yeah. What ever happened to him? Do you know?"

Shitty's silent for a long moment, long enough that Jack feels a chill.

"I… what brought this on?" Shitty asks finally, instead of answering the question, and that's another red flag of giant proportions.

"I thought I saw him," Jack says as he lathers up some soap against his chest. "In the stands tonight. We're in Atlanta and I mean it's been seven years and it was just for a second, but I was so sure… And suddenly I realized I don't know what…"

Shitty breathes out low and slow and shaky, and Jack pauses mid soap, filled with a sudden understanding that it hadn't just been a change of heart, or typical 'family stuff' that Bittle had put his college education on hold for. It had been something much bigger, and he hadn't even really asked.

"Shitty, what happened that summer?"

"He went back to Georgia," Shitty says, voice even and meticulously calm in a way Jack knows is anything but. "Our precious pie-baking big-hearted brave little frog went from a year of… of being _himself_ at Samwell back to living in the deep south."

His voice wavers on the last word and when he continues the words are sharp and angry. "And he was brave as fuck but bravery doesn't mean shit against baseball bats and beer bottles."

Jack feels the edges of his vision go fuzzy again and he has to force himself to breathe properly. He gives up on the shower and drops down on the nearest bench. His breaths are coming too fast though, too sharp and wheezing.

" _Criss de câlisse_ , what the hell. What the _fuck_ , Shitty, why-"

"He didn't want people to know. Okay? He didn't want… And sue me, but I wasn't fucking about to violate his consent right then."

Jack forces himself to take a breath, because Shits is right but he's still furious that-

"I shouldn't even be telling you now, but he fucking went off the _grid_. Phone, twitter, all gone. His parents moved too so I couldn't even… Look. If you see him, Jack, please. Please. Give him my number or yours or…"

Jack nods, only belatedly realizing Shitty can't see it and adding, "Oui. Absolument."

"You saw him though? He was…" Shitty takes a shaky breath. "Alive? Okay?"

"I don't know," he says, feeling suddenly horribly frustrated. Angry, and impotent. His fingers ache where he's gripping the edge of the bench. "I was so sure of it though. So sure I recognized him. He looked… okay, fine? I don't know, I only caught a glimpse."

"Jesus fuck I hope so. Fuck." Subsequent cursing is muffled as he holds the phone away from his mouth.

And he could still be there. Right now. In the same fucking building and-

"Shits. I'm going to go - I'm going to go look for him I think… I-" Jack drops his towel and his phone and haphazardly starts yanking on his clothes, whatever comes handy. The night's going to be too cold for the shorts he drags on but he doesn't care, just shoves his feet into his trainers sans socks and drags a Falconers hoodie over his head and heads out of the locker room.

One of the assistants startles as he comes marching out, fumbles after him, saying something about a car and the hotel but Jack ignores him, saying, "sorry," and turning to yank open the door marked "stairs." There are a handful of reporters down the hall who look confused at his detour but he just shuts the door behind him and runs up the interior stairwell that will get him up to the public levels. 

It makes him dizzy, combined with how hard his heart's racing, but he ignores his lightheadedness and the way his shoe squeaks with residual moisture and concentrates on navigating. Though the rink is new and mostly unfamiliar, a stadium's a stadium, so it's not that hard to figure out where he's going. Soon he's pushing open the big doors that break from the team side into the public side of the stadium and he nods at baffled security guys as he jogs past them to follow through the great concrete ring-path that surrounds the stands, looking for what he thinks is the right section.

He's not going unnoticed, his bandage and his clothing an obvious attention-getter even beyond his famous face, and people are whispering and pulling out phones for photos and some of them calling his name in excitement but he ignores them too, slipping between the fans to get to the opening to the tunnel leading out to the stands.

The sound of distant cheering and the familiar patter of the sports announcers echoes overhead, swells to fullness as he runs up the tunnel, and he'd listen to them on reflex, check the score on the screens overhead as he breaks into the shining open bay of the stadium with its crisp air and bright lights but his blood is pounding in his ears and the task of finding Bittle is the only thing in his mind. The rest of it's all greyscale and blurred and unimportant.

The usher guarding the top of the lower section where he thought he'd seen Bittle stares in dismay as he jogs up to him and says, "Excuse me, I just need to talk to someone down there. I'm sorry."

The guy hesitates, but Jack doesn't wait for his decision, just slips past him awkwardly in the too-narrow space and trots his way down the steps towards the bank of seats below. The people in the crowd around him are all turning and talking and he can see in his peripheral vision that at least one of the cameras has turned his way along with some of the players on the bench but he doesn't care.

He gets down to the break between the VIP rows and the second-tier and looks, checking between the position he'd been on the ice and the section to make sure he's in the right spot but he's not there. There's an empty seat, but no Bittle. He glances at the other nearby sections, but they're all full. The whole stadium is sold out. There's just the one seat in the area that's empty.

"He left," an elderly woman calls to him from her place on the end of the row with the empty seat, her raspy voice lilting in a shockingly-familiar Georgian drawl. "The blonde boy? If that's who you're looking for."

Jack nods, unable to form any words. Her face goes soft, pitying as he leans down to listen more easily as she explains, "He left after they took you off the ice. Seemed very upset. Took his things with him too. Don't think he's coming back."

Oh.

He presses his hands to his face, takes a calming breath as the adrenaline drops out from under him. Then he musters a polite nod of thanks for the woman before he turns for the exit.

Everything returns to him in full sound and color then as he stares up the boxy steps. His path has filled in behind him with curious fans and even a few reporters, staring at him with interest and excitement as fans do - and he feels the weight of his error in coming out here like this. It suddenly feels like everyone in the entire stadium is looking at him and he's drawn so much attention and he hadn't even…

But the usher takes one look at his face and starts shooing people back, politely but firmly demanding that the onlookers make a space for him to escape through. And they obey. They're curious, sure, but they're not trying to be a problem for him. They let him up the stairs unaccosted save for some scattered clapping and cheering like he's skating off the ice.

The assistant is trying to squeeze between people in the crowd, Brian, he thinks the kid's name is. He looks horribly overwhelmed and relieved when Jack appears in front of him again, though he seems to find some of his authority and gets louder in his requests that people excuse them as he leads them through the tunnel and back towards the stairs back down.

It's just as well. He'd left his phone on the bench, his bag with his wallet and his clothes. He thinks an injury will prevent anyone from hassling him too much about the dresscode, but he's not looking forward to getting his ass chewed over going out into the stands so he hurries, just grabs his things and follows Brian out to the player's entrance to the parking lot where the car is supposed to be waiting.

There are some people gathered there, not many, and he's grateful when Brian awkwardly asks them to not ask Jack any questions or for autographs. They still call well-wishes at him, and he musters his press smile and a wave for them as he marches for the car, wanting more than anything to be away from here, somewhere private where he can call Shitty back and apologize for not being faster, maybe get the rest of the story out of him and possibly lose his shit a little over something he knows he couldn't have known about - had been actively kept from knowing about - but feels like he should have done better at anyway.

He's got one foot in the car when he glances up over the hood and sees ginger hair in the distance amidst the parked cars just beyond the end of the path from the player's entrance. Ginger hair and those familiar shoulders and the posture he feels like he'd know anywhere, somehow, even after all these years.

"Bittle," he calls reflexively, jerking himself back out of the car and then hurrying around behind it to get a better look. 

Bittle's heard him, or maybe he was already coming this way. His hands are clutched together over his belly, coat in his arms as he walks slowly closer. _Limps_ closer, Jack realized with sudden sick-feeling understanding. His gait is wrong, but not like it something new that pains him. Like it's just his normal now, to have to place his foot carefully each step rather than glide along thoughtlessly like he used to.

"Eric," Jack breathes as he jogs to a halt in front of him, and oh, he looks older. His face has squared up, the roundness of his youth having faded. His skin is more tanned, his hair less carefully wrangled and there are hollows in his cheeks, small lines around his eyes. He's maybe an inch or two taller than before, his shoulders and arms a little thicker under his worn flannel, or maybe that's just the passage of time has made him less wide-eyed and small-seeming. There's a long, faded scar that runs from his ear down along his jaw and under his chin and his smile is so small, so tentative and his eyes so wary, so distant. He looks so different, and yet…

"Hi Jack," he says, looking up at him from so close, and it's like the intervening seven years had never happened for one brief moment.

But he sounds tired. Hesitant, but also relieved as he looks Jack over, eyes lingering on the bandage. 

"You're alright?"

"I'll be fine," Jack says dismissively. "But are you… Bittle, _Eric_ … nobody told me what…"

Eric's eyes turn guarded, even more-so, and his smile tightens. "I'm fine."

"But I…" Jack doesn't know what to say, what he's even trying to say, he realizes. He clears his throat and says, " _Crisse_. It's just, it's really good to see you."

And Eric's face softens then, his eyes going just a little bright with the first hint of tears in the reflected parking-lot lamplight. 

"Yeah. Yeah, it's good to see you too, Jack, I…" He pauses, swallows. "It's good to see you."

They stare at each other for a long moment, till the wind picks up just a hint and reminds Jack that he's wearing shorts, and also makes him realize how much his shoulder is aching under his bag.

"Do you… do you have to be somewhere tonight? I'm headed back to my hotel…" Jack asks, glancing back at the car that's waiting for him and the driver who's talking with a confused-looking Brian.

There's a too-long pause and when he turns his gaze back to Eric, there's a sharp-edged light in his eyes, a speculative lift of his eyebrows. The way his lashes dip and his mouth twists before he drawls, "No, I've got nowhere special to be," has a startling surge of something a lot like arousal spiking through Jack's belly. 

Which isn't entirely new, but…

He belatedly realizes that Eric's picked up on what could be construed as an innuendo - and is perhaps silently mocking him for the slip, or perhaps considering it in earnest. He's not sure, because he's never sure with these things, but as he stares at him, he realizes he doesn't care that it's not what he meant. He just cares that Eric might say yes when he says, "Come with me? We can have dinner or hang out or… coffee? Do you still like those pumpkin…"

Eric laughs, but it isn't a happy sound.

"Anything. I just…" _don't want you to disappear again_. And maybe he hadn't known until tonight just how far he'd lost him, but now that he's here, he's absolutely certain that he doesn't want to make that mistake again. 

Eric's face is unreadable, eyes dark as he studies Jack's face, but then he shrugs. Says, "Alright. Alright Mr. Zimmermann. I could use a good cup of coffee."

"Good," Jack says, feeling terribly relieved. He turns, leads the way back towards the car, and Eric follows. Slowly. He tries not to watch, even though he's desperately curious to understand, to ask _what happened to you_ and _why didn't you tell me_ but that's up to Bittle to say, not for him to prod at. He knows that only too well.

He opens the door for him because it's there and then goes around to the other side of the car to slide into the seat, settles his bag on his lap as Eric slots his leg in the door and sits a little heavily as he slides in, though not so much he would really notice if he weren't looking for it.

Which he is. Because he can't not.

The car is silent as they pull away from the stadium, and Jack wants to say something, wants to say anything, but he feels wrong-footed. 

Eric just looks out the window for a while, jacket and bag folded in his lap as they merge into the evening Atlanta traffic and head for the relatively nearby hotel. It's a nice enough sort of place that he's sure he can get whatever Eric wants, even if it means sending the concierge for it.

"So… are you a Racers fan?" Jack asks eventually, because as awkward as he feels, he's absolutely certain he doesn't want to let this slip by, so he has to start somewhere.

Eric snorts, glances over at him and says, "Sure. That's why I came here tonight, to watch them get decimated by you."

"Oh. That's… that's good," Jack says.

Eric stares at him, mouth quirked in that way that Jack remembers means he's halfway to laughing at Jack. But then his face softens a little, runs a little more sadly fond as his eyes study Jack's face, his body, like he's cataloguing the last seven years too. 

"Shitty's going to be glad to hear I saw you," Jack says.

Eric stiffens, eyes flicking to his face and then away out the window, his arms folding more tightly across his chest. His face is blank as he says vaguely, "Oh. How's he doing?"

And Jack knows he's said something else wrong, but he'd told Shitty he'd try. He pulls his phone out of his bag and says, "Good. He's a lawyer now. He'd be really happy to hear from you, you know. I talked to him tonight after I thought I saw you and he said I should give his number to you… if you want. Or…"

Eric stares through the driver's seat in front of him, but then shrugs, shoulders drooping as he gives up on defensive and settles back into weary. "Sure. I… sure," he says, then fishes his phone out of his pocket. It's old, and battered, and it doesn't have a brightly-colored or decorated case. It's just a phone, just like everyone else's.

It feels wrong, somehow.

He unlocks it and hands it to Jack, who fumbles a bit with the different interface, but manages to open the surprisingly-empty contact list. Jack types out Shitty's number and saves it, and then after a moment's hesitation types in his own and then Lardo's for good measure.

Eric is looking out the tinted window again when he's finished, and when Jack extends the phone he looks at it for a long moment before taking it back and pocketing it.

"Thanks," he says, and it doesn't sound at all like he really means it, but it does at the same time.

"Of course," Jack says, and he does really mean that.

The car turns in to a roundabout that leads up to the hotel's plaza and Eric looks up through the windows. It's not a place meant to be fanciful more than practical, but no hotel gets built in the center of a big city without being a work of architecture, so it's interesting to look at. Eric turns his gaze away, back to Jack, who's still just looking at him.

He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. Just turns and bundles his bag up to his chest as they arrive at the hotel and a bellhop scurries over to open the door for him, then goes around to the other side for Eric. Jack thanks the driver and checks to see that Eric's okay before heading in. He pauses in the lobby as he glances at the archway leading to the hotel restaurant, then down at himself.

"Sorry, I'm not really dressed, but I can change and we can…" He gestures at the arch.

Eric looks at him a little strangely, then huffs a laugh and says, "There's also room service. In your room. Where you can lie down, Mr. Head Injury."

"I'm fine," he says reflexively at the tiny chirp, though it's not entirely true. But he's certainly not going to argue for more time in public, so he just heads for the elevators, digging the little sleeve with his card and room number on it out of his bags. It's eerily familiar, riding the elevator up alongside Bittle after a game at the team hotel. Suddenly his mind is filled with old memories, random bits of road time and Shitty roping them all into shenanigans, Eric grinning in the background, looking just pleased to be included, like he's still not quite believing he's part of this team, this line.

Jack's starting to wonder just how hard his younger self must have worked to actively forget Eric in the months that had followed his disappearance. 

The perks of being Captain mean that he's the only one billeted in his room, and it's nice tonight, even if he sortof wishes he weren't alone the rest of the time. Now, he doesn't have to think twice about bringing Eric into his room. Nor does he have to be careful where he slings his bag down.

Eric's careful. He looks around with slow eyes and then takes four sparse steps and puts his bag down on one of the uncomfortable but stylish-looking chairs by the desk.

"Order anything you want, okay?" he says firmly as he rummages around in his bag for a clean tee shirt and some actual pants and underwear. "I'm going to clean up. Didn't really take a shower after."

"Okay," Eric says, face unreadable again as he watches Jack head for the bathroom.

Jack pauses with his hand on the door, looks back at him, at this strange piece of his past he didn't know he was missing. 

"Be here when I get back, eh?"

Eric stares at him, then softly says, "Okay, Jack."


	2. Chapter 2

It surprises him to find that Eric's still there when Jack gets back out of the shower. He'd heard the door once during his shower, so he'd thought…

Eric's sitting perched on the edge of one of the chairs at the small dining table, waiting. A number of other items have appeared in the interim, though, including three different portions of foods and two paper coffee cups with PSL written on them and a brown paper sack folded neatly on the edge.

Dressed more like a human being and less like a rink rat now, Jack tosses his change of clothes down on his open bag and drifts closer, looking him over again. The sight of him is no less surreal now than it had been before, and it seems like it must be much the same for him in turn, the way he's looking at Jack.

"No pie?" Jack dares to chirp.

Eric's smile is just a flicker, but it's there, and Jack takes the seat across from him at the table.

"I wasn't sure what's on your meal plan these days but I figure it can't have changed _that_ much," Eric says as he lifts the lids on the two remaining portions of food. He's got a funny local sandwich in front of him that's already half-eaten and clearly more than half made up of fried things, sitting beside more fried sides and Jack smiles. 

"Not the southern specialties, it would seem," he says, sitting down and nodding at the sea bass and steamed vegetables on one, and the grilled chicken and rice on the other. It still looks good, though maybe not quite as good as what Eric has. 

"Unlikely," Eric agrees, taking another piece of fried sweet-potato from his own plate to chew on. He side-eyes Jack's food and says, "I don't envy you that. You're missing out."

"Yeah? I've never really eaten around here before. Maybe I'll take a cheat day tomorrow since I'm not going to be playing," he says, smiling as he retrieves a fork and digs into the meal out of long habit more than any real desire to eat it. "Try some local favorites for breakfast."

"You should." 

Eric watches him eat a moment, picking over his own food with light, fidgeting fingers, but after a few minutes of quiet ease he sits back, looking a little more relaxed as he picks up and sips his coffee drink, though he offers it a bemused smile, his upturned little nose wrinkling.

"I'm not sure how I drank so many of these back then. Lord, they're even sweeter than I remembered."

Jack frowns as he takes a bite of the chicken, chews it over. He can't help but remember Bitty of old, bright-eyed in his defense of the wonders of the PSL. 

"Still good though?"

"Yeah, still good," Eric admits, curling both hands around it. He flicks his eyes up to Jack, then back down to the white plastic. His thumbnail presses into the edge. "Some things don't change."

The implication that most things have sits heavy in the space between them. When Eric tilts his head, the pale scar along his jaw is visible again and Jack has to swallow against the urge to blurt out _what happened?_. It's too much, too private a thing to pry into - after all, it had been so seven years ago when they'd been teammates and _friends_ , so it stands to reason it's too far for him to tread now. On the other hand, small-talk feels too trite since they both know that it doesn't come naturally to him and it feels like they should be past that somehow. 

Jack can't help but feel a little lost. 

"You still bake?" he asks, because somehow he desperately wants to hear that hasn't changed too.

To that, at least, he's rewarded with an eyeroll and a laugh as Eric says, "Now that's just crazy-talk. I think there'd be pigs flyin' before I stopped baking. _Do I still bake_."

He tsks, and Jack smiles a little as he scoops up some rice with his next bite, feeling rebuffed in the best way. He shovels a few more bites of food in his mouth, dutifully refueling his body as he watches the man across from him, watches the way the genuine laughter fades slowly away, leaving the weary lines he'd never have expected to see on the bright young man.

"So, you bake. That's good. And… you're living here now, in Atlanta?" he half asks, not wanting to push, but wanting to know. He wants to know everything, everything he's missed. Wants to draw the lines of connection between them again so that… he's not quite sure what, but he knows he wants it.

Eric doesn't look at him as he sips his coffee, then shakes his head, still staring at the white plastic lid. "Sortof."

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he just eats more rice, but he watches Eric in the dull hotel room light, struck by such a longing for those days at the end of his junior year, before he'd had to actually prepare for the league, before it all got serious, before Eric had disappeared. Back when it'd all seemed so hopeful. So much more to look forward to.

Eric looks at him, the edge of his mouth turning up a little as he considers something. He runs his lower lip between his teeth and Jack can't help but watch the motion. It's not like he'd never realized he found Bittle attractive, back then. But that hadn't been important, not when there was so much on the line, too much to risk just for…

He almost laughs, a flicker of bitterness at his younger self, at how many things he didn't know better than to let pass him by.

"And you," Eric says, setting his cup down, leaning in against the table on his elbow, setting his pointed chin in his palm. "Still playing. Still amazing. Still…"

Jack puts his fork down, gazes at him. "Still a hockey robot. Yeah."

"Still alone?" Eric asks, voice soft and casual, but not with the pity he's used to hearing with such questions. His face is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes Jack feels all too familiar with. Something almost knowing.

The words still call to a part of him that aches from it, a wound he's sure is only getting worse as time goes on. He sits back in his chair, gives up on the meal he's only half hungry for now anyway. 

"I'm gay," he says simply, though it's something he's only ever said aloud a handful of times, because if he can't say it to Eric, of all the people in the world, then he can't say it to anyone. "And with everything else… I never quite felt ready to…" he shrugs for all the rest of it, all the fears and loneliness and the conflicting responsibilities to his team. It all seems so insignificant now. 

"Guess I was never as brave as you."

Eric blinks, looks away and swallows. His hand comes up to his mouth, fingers curled and knuckles brushing gently against his lips, a small, soothing motion that abides with him as he breathes in, then out. 

Then he pushes up out of his chair. Takes the careful step required to close the distance between them, a look of determination on his face that's achingly familiar even though it's far harder around the edges than Jack remembers. He winds his arms around Jack's neck, leans down so that their faces are so very close together, his fingers curling ever so slightly in the hair at the base of Jack's skull. His eyes are so open, so raw.

"Stop me, if you want," he says, his voice so soft, breath ghosting over Jack's parted lips.

Jack kisses him.

It's been so long, so very long since he's done this at all, and even then it's been strangers. People who don't care about things like hockey enough to know who he is. Never someone to get attached to, to get familiar with, so there's no one to disappoint, no one to lose.

Eric's familiar, even if it's been years, even if they never were anything like _this_ to each other. The soft hum of Eric's voice as he presses deeper into the kiss is one he's heard a hundred times on the ice, on a quick turn and push. The way his body moves in easy response to Jack's when he wraps his arms around him, pulls him into his lap, it's as though his body recognizes his former teammate, his former liney. Someone he could shoot pucks to blind, who he could trust to be on his wing without fail.

He wonders if it'd still be true, if they were back on the ice together after all these years they could find that same chemistry. Then abruptly, painfully, he remembers Eric's damaged leg and his head swims with the sense of loss, the useless anger and the bitterness of all of it, of everything altogether. 

Eric's fingers tremble against his skin, like he feels it too, but it's not something he can change, so Jack kisses him like it's the last chance he'll have to kiss anyone ever again. He plunges his tongue into Eric's mouth, tastes the sweet residue of pumpkin spice on his teeth and drags their lips together in a slow slide that echoes through his body in heavy need.

Abruptly Eric slides out of Jack's grip, looking breathless and ruffled, eyes dark with arousal. 

"Still intense," he murmurs and Jack can't help but dip his head in a little nod even as he holds his eyes, because it's true. It's all he knows how to be, really.

Eric looks him over, one of his hands curled against his own chest, posture suddenly hesitant. 

Jack lets him be, waits for him to decide whatever he's deciding. He _wants_ this, so intensely, but wants Eric to have what he wants even more. 

Eric studies Jack's face for a long moment, then drops a hand and touches him again, gentle over his abdomen and Jack tenses reflexively, but it's all want. Jack watches as Eric's fingers dip, slide up under his shirt to splay over the muscles he maintains with such singular purpose.

"Did you ever think about this? Back then?" Eric asks as his hands pull Jack's shirt up till Jack takes the hint and stands up so he can drag it over his head himself. 

"I tried not to," he admits, fingers curling into the hem of Eric's flannel shirt where it hangs open over his dark jeans. He waits for Eric's pace, though, lets him set the rules of the game.

Eric reaches up, runs his fingertips over Jack's mouth, then down his bare chest, slowly, till he reaches his waistband. His eyes flick up to Jack's, checking in, and then he tugs loose the button and zipper, pushes his hand down inside the fabric to cup his groin. Those hands are still strong, still obviously powerful despite their small relative size, and he exhales shakily as Eric runs his palm along the ridge of Jack's erection in a slow kneading motion.

"Wasn't always successful."

Eric leans in, swipes his tongue fast and wicked over one of Jack's nipples, then bites, just a little, just a nip before he pulls away entirely, moves back towards the table where their dinners have been abandoned. 

For an absurd moment, Jack thinks he's about to sit back down and finish his coffee, but then he reaches for the other occupant of the table. The paper bag.

Jack isn't all that surprised when Eric dumps out a bottle of lube and a variety pack of condoms that look like they're straight from the hotel's convenience store. He turns them over in his hands, checking them, then tosses them over onto the nearest of the two beds.

"Neither was I," Eric says, looking over his shoulder at Jack.

This time Jack does step forward and slide his hand up under Eric's shirt. Eric bows his head forward, his neck slim and tempting and Jack kisses the skin offered him as he works Eric's shirt loose, helps him shrug out of it and toss it aside and then he too is bared to the waist. 

He doesn't have the muscle definition of a full-time athlete anymore, but only just. He's still stunningly beautiful, his skin golden in the dim light, so elegantly proportioned among his smaller stature. Jack slides close till his chest is against Eric's back, so that he can run his hands down Eric's belly and down over his hips. 

Eric's fingers slide down his arms as he splays his palms over Eric's chest, hugs that trim body back against his like maybe if he tries hard enough he can keep him. Jack's lips brush over scattered freckles on Eric's shoulders, his neck. He breathes in against his hair, drags in a scent that's not exactly familiar, but one he wants to memorize now. 

"Will you fuck me?" he asks, because he can. "If you'd like."

Eric lets out a shaky breath, fingers digging into Jack's forearm as he tips his head back on his shoulder.

"Yeah. Yeah, Jack, I think I'd like that very much."

Jack, feeling emboldened, starts in on Eric's jeans, gets them opened and gets his hands into Eric's underwear and then pushes all the fabric downward, gets him bared to the room. Eric laughs faintly, grips Jack's forearm to steady himself as he toes out of his shoes, then shimmies the rest of his clothes off.

He peels off his socks, bouncing them off Jack's chest as he turns around and then he goes straight to returning the favor, yanking Jack's pants down with significantly more force. Jack doesn't mind in the slightest, especially not when Eric grabs him by his hips and marches him back to the bed where he's forced to let his knees go and dump himself onto his back.

Jack sucks in a breath, wincing when his head jostles a bit at the fall. It's only that he'd forgotten about it, tugged at the stitches a bit. He's fine. He toes the rest of the way out of his pants and then kicks down the coverlet and blankets but his would-be lover isn't moving to help.

Instead, Eric plants his hands on his hips, naked and beautiful and frowning down at him. "The things a boy has to do to get Mr. Head Injury to lie down and rest," he says in what Jack recognizes easily as his chirping voice, but there's hesitation, concern there. "What is it, exactly, that your team doc said?"

"He said I'm going to be fine. Just a couple stitches and a mild concussion. Won't be out for more than one more game," he replies honestly as he shifts up onto his elbows. This too is strangely familiar, being naked in the same space as him. He's aroused, body alert and responsive, but he's relaxed too in a way he never has been with strangers. 

Eric frowns at his head, still looking worried, but after a moment he breathes out softly and lets his eyes wander. He puts his hands on Jack's shins, strokes his fingertips up the intimate inner lines up to his knees and then presses them apart, gives himself space to climb up between them.

"Well now, you'd best just lie back and let me take care of you, then," he murmurs, low and sweet and sensual as he leans up over him. His torso brushes against the sensitive skin of Jack's inner thigh, warm and smooth as his knees slide up under Jack's. They lean together, bare body to bare body, sharing a secret in their touch.

Jack's heart is pounding, his skin prickling and his core liquid with want and he lifts his hand, strokes his fingers through soft golden curls. He feels all of this somewhere deep inside him, somewhere so far past everything of his life's surface it makes everything else feel foreign. 

Eric leans into the touch, letting some of his defenses slip away as he squeezes his eyes shut, sucks in a deep breath and lets Jack hold him. But it's only a moment, and then he opens his eyes and spreads Jacks thighs and slides his palms up the length of Jack's body.

"Still gorgeous," Eric says, smiling a little lopsidedly. He leans down to kiss Jack, to take his mouth again soft and wet and sweet, but he doesn't linger. He lets his mouth go searching down over Jack's jaw, down his throat where he presses in tight, lets his body pin Jack down. When Jack arches into it, responds with a moan he goes harder, he works in nips and sucks that sting and have Jack clutching at Eric's sides. 

Eric pulls away again, pulls out of the hands holding him and drags his teeth over Jack's nipple, runs his thumbs down the ridges of his abs. Scratches his fingernails through the trail of dark hair leading to his groin, still slightly damp from the shower. Jack doesn't reach for him again, though he wants to, but he's spent so much of his life reading people's bodies. 

Eric licks his lips when he lifts his head to look at him, then shifts and leans up to tug one of the pillows down, pushes it up under Jack's hips when he lifts them obligingly. There Eric pauses, eyes drinking in the sight of Jack laid out for him, fingers massaging gently close but not quite where Jack aches to be touched. 

He feels exposed, unsurprisingly, placed on display like this, but it's not at all a bad thing for once. He feels like Eric sees him in a way he always avoids, but it doesn't feel wrong, like he isn't measuring Jack against some expectation he never agreed to. Perhaps if it weren't for the look of hunger in Eric's eyes he'd feel embarrassed, but instead he just feels anticipation.

Eric doesn't go right for the obvious. He trails his mouth along the jut of muscle that runs from Jack's hip to groin, slides his teeth over to the pale skin inside his thigh and sets them there, hard enough to sting and then soothes the mark with his tongue. 

"Oh," Jack breathes, body flexing when he does it again, harder, hard enough that it'll leave a bruise and _Crisse_.

Eric laughs faintly, drags his palms over Jack's body in a possessive, covetous swipe and Jack leaves himself open to it, surrenders to the strength of his hands.

When Eric finally slots his mouth down over Jack, it's clear that he's no novice. He's quick to get Jack slick with saliva, to lave his tongue over the length of him in fast, steady little passes that leave him trembling. 

His hands aren't idle, either. One of them strokes the parts of Jack's cock that he can't reach with his lips, the other moves between his thighs and the meat of his ass and then up to gently knead his balls in smooth succession. Eric hums, eyelashes soft against his cheeks as he swallows Jack down, draws him into his mouth with something so like reverence that Jack forgets to breathe.

Jack closes his eyes a moment because the sight is too much and he's not ready for this to be over. He steadies himself with a breath or two, then concentrates on a practical task when he opens his eyes again. The new bottle of lube still has plastic wrap around its cap, the condoms still boxed up, and he definitely doesn't want to wait any longer than absolutely necessary to use either when Eric's ready.

When he's gotten things unwrapped, he finally looks back to where Eric's slowly mouthing at the head of his cock, eyes following the motions of Jack's hands. He pulls off, lips shining with leftover saliva and reaches for Jack's offerings, saying a quiet, "Thanks, sweetheart."

Jack hadn't prepared for this in the shower, hadn't even thought of it as a possibility like Eric had, but Eric doesn't seem to care. He just sorts through the assorted condoms and opens and slides the otherwise-useless XL over his fingers. He lubes it up before touching Jack, efficient and practiced as he does it. Jack's no virgin either, but of the two of them, it's clear who has gotten more life experience out of the last seven years.

He concentrates on relaxing, but Eric is plenty deft, his smaller fingers pressing into Jack's body with gentle ease. He works them slowly and smoothly through the wrinkle of latex, watching Jack's face and body for his reactions, and then after a few moments he lowers his mouth back to Jack's thigh again, sucks another bruise into life as he starts to plunge his fingers more roughly.

Suddenly it's overwhelming. It's so good, so very good that Jack arches under him, sucks in a sharp breath and clutches at his shoulder. Eric's fingers curl, stroke expertly inside him and Jack looks down at him helplessly, barely manages, "Osti. S'il…s'il te-"

Eric sits up, hand withdrawing sharply as he folds off the condom and grabs at another, tears it open with sharp motions and then rolls the latex over his own cock. He lays up, positions himself between Jack's legs and lines his cock up with Jack's hole, pushes in firmly enough to ache but Jack wants it, wants more. He wants everything in a way he's only ever wanted one thing before.

"Shh, shh honey, I've got you," Eric murmurs over him and he only belatedly realizes he's still murmuring pleas in Québécois. 

And Eric does have him, pins his wrists to the bed with strong hands, fucks him slow at first, then harder, faster, till the sound of their bodies colliding is loud in the room, slick and visceral. He breathes in pants, short and quiet and shattered as Eric moves inside him in a way he couldn't have really even imagined seven years ago.

Eric's not so quiet, his breaths are harsher, his moans interspersed between mumbled praises, sometimes in southern phrases Jack still doesn't understand, bitten-off curses and his name, spoken over and over in a reverent tone he knows he'll never forget. He lets himself drown in the sight of him, the sound of him in his bed, soaking up every detail he can, everything he's missed without ever knowing it.

Eric's fingers tighten around his wrists as he bites his lip and grunts with the effort of fucking Jack and for a moment, Jack feels a wild, irrational hope that he won't ever let him go again. His orgasm takes him by surprise, his cock trapped between the press of their bellies and he comes, breathless, staring at Eric's wide eyes.

It's over far faster than he'd hoped, Eric swearing sharply as Jack's body clenches around him, fucking into him and curling into the tension of his frame as a trembling gasp rips its way from parted lips. Jack stares at him, watches the way he orgasms, the way the flush of sex has spread over his neck and chest, making the scar along his jaw stand out even more. He savors the sensation of throbbing inside him, of the slick heat in the places where their skin touches. 

They stay there a moment, breathing hard into the silence, Eric's eyes closed and his lips parted as he catches his breath, comes down from it all. Jack never wants this moment to end, but he knows, perhaps better than most, that all good things come to an end no matter how hard you hold onto them. 

Eric's fingers tremble when they let go of Jack's wrists, when he pulls back from between his legs and takes the condom with him. He stumbles a little as he stands. Like he's forgotten that his foot doesn't work right anymore, but he catches himself. He doesn't look at Jack as he throws it away, his shoulders tense and drawn up high around his shoulders.

There's a moment where he glances at the door, and Jack feels suddenly sick at the thought of watching him walk away, even though he knows this was… something out of time, something outside of the rules of normal life. They barely even knew each other seven years ago, and now all he knows is that Eric's still beautiful. He still bakes, but he doesn't skate anymore and…

"Stay," he says, voice rough and soft. "Please."

Eric looks at him in the dim light, his dark eyes sad, a little haunted, but he just walks over and turns off the lamp. Lies down beside Jack in the bed and lets Jack pull him close.

Eric holds him, tangles their legs together as he gets an arm under Jack's neck, lets him rest his head on his shoulder and sling his arms around his waist. Eric's lips brush against his temple, so soft. Jack closes his eyes. It feels intimate, and though they really are barely more than strangers, they're something to each other. Some piece of history that was, however briefly, real and good and imperfect but happy.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers against Eric's skin, exhaustion settling heavy over him, the night's happenings all settling up at once. "I never knew. I wish I could've… been better. Wish I'd had your back."

"I know," Eric shushes quietly, strokes gentle fingers through his hair. "I know."

 

When he wakes up, the hotel room is empty. He knows it instantly, even as he blinks away sleep, sits up in the big bed with its tangled white sheets pooling in his lap. 

It's still early but Jack's overslept, his head aching with the weight of an injury that's kept him under too well. He stares out the windows at the golden rays backlighting the taller buildings of Atlanta, then looks over the room, slowly getting to his feet and heading for his bag, still piled by the bathroom door. His phone is still full of notifications, texts and calls and emails he'll need to answer, but none of them are the one he'd hoped for.

None of them are Eric.

He looks back at the pillow, or the nightstand or the table by the television with its abandoned meals, but there's nothing. No piece of paper with parting words, no discarded clothing other than his own. Just silence. Just an empty roadie hotel room like all the hundreds before it.

It's like he'd never been there at all.

Jack drags himself to the bathroom, feeling all the aches that tell him unequivocally just what had happened last night, no matter how sparse the room feels in the morning light. In the mirror and its too bright light he stares at the stark white bandage on his head and then at the purpling hickeys on his throat and thighs. 

He studies them for a long moment, runs his fingers over the surreal evidence. Then he closes his eyes and runs the taps, gets his fingers wet and alive with the sensation of temperature as he breathes until he's grounded in his own skin again.

The silence is horrible, but then, Bitty's been listening to it for seven years. Jack can brave it a little longer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any resemblance or apparent namesakeness of the fictional Falcs guys to real life hockey players is completely unintentional and accidental and probably due to me having hockey on in the background at the time I was writing this and picking names is hard.

"Now, here's a bit of an interesting story, Andy. Last night's game between the Atlanta Racers and the Providence Falconers. Did you watch it?"

"Not a game we'd normally expect much out of, Jim. I admit I didn't rush to tune in at first."

"No indeed. Reigning Cup champions against a brand new re-establishment team isn't generally going to result in an upset or even be very interesting. And it wasn't an upset last night with a final score of 8-2 Falconers. But what _did_ happen was a bit wild."

"Understatement. The fact that the Racers even managed those two tells you it was an interesting night."

"Now, the Racers played dirty right from the get-go, that was pretty clear, so it wasn't too surprising that things got out of hand."

"Surprising that they even put Zimmermann on the ice, though, instead of starting one of the newer players for some practice under pressure."

"Well, that's Captain mentality for you, which we know Zimmermann takes seriously. But it didn't pay off last night when a bad check off an under-padded gate-post resulted in blood on the ice and a dazed Zimmermann getting buried under a full-bench brawl. Now, Jack's going to be fine, the team doctor reports, just a few stitches and a possible concussion that'll keep him on the back-bench in Dallas and possibly the next game, but that was only the beginning."

"Boy was it ever!" (Laughter) "It was chaos after that - and not just on the ice!"

"Already down by a humiliating five goals, the Racers seemed determined to play even more viciously after that and, well, despite the coaches' best efforts, both teams seemed to lose their heads at that point."

"This is how you know when a hockey team really loves their captain, Jim." 

(Laughter)

"It was wild. Even calmer veteran players picked up the charge and somehow in just under a period they approached league records for penalties and fight time. There was barely any hockey happening! Instead of passing the puck, most face-offs meant gloves were flying and it was time for another brawl." 

"Now from the looks of things, officials clearly favored the home team a bit, since both sides were into it but there were such extreme Atlanta power plays resulting from the penalties, the Racers actually managed two goals playing against seriously under-manned shifts. But that wasn't even the half of it!"

"No, as you can see here, we've got footage here of a freshly-bandaged Jack Zimmermann appearing out in the _stands_ , looking upset and apparently searching for someone in the crowd. No one's quite sure what's going on here, and we weren't able to catch any good footage of that area earlier, but it does seem to be near where Zimmermann took the bad hit."

"Yes, early speculation was he got riled up over something a fan shouted - though honestly I think that's unlikely, given how cool-headed Zimmermann's known to be with trash talking."

"Agreed. Seems more likely he saw someone in the stands he knew, maybe his phone wasn't working and he wanted to let someone know he's okay? Though he does seem upset. We can see here on the footage there's a pretty young woman sitting near the end of the row he's leaning towards, though we can't see his face with this camera. Possibly a girlfriend? Do we know if Jack's got a girlfriend? I can't remember."

"Well, Jack's notoriously private about his personal life. I don't think we've ever heard anything on that front."

"Whatever happened, it was certainly an unexpected turn of events. Mayhem was in the air last night."

"That's for sure. I for one am glad I'm not a fly on the wall around head coach Rheems this morning, I'll tell you that."

"Oh I can't even imagine-"

Jack mutes the television when a brisk knock sounds on his hotel room door. They've still got a few hours before they have to head to the airport, which he's been taking advantage of by resting quietly in his bed and watching highlights when sleep had eluded him rather soundly. 

The rest of the team has left him alone thus far but he's not surprised when he pulls open the door and sees Coach Rheems and Coach Forth looking back at him with expressions that fall somewhere between beleaguered and bemused.

"Coach," he says, nodding to them and inviting them into the room.

"How's the noggin?" Forth asks.

"Fine. Probably didn't even need the stiches. Looked way worse than it was. I'll probably be good by Dallas, honestly."

Rheems looks him over with a frown, studying his head and his face for signs of bluster, but after a moment he nods and pats him on the shoulder. "Glad to hear it. Stars are a little light in the bench right now for injury too, so I think we'll keep you back tonight, give Blažek some more lead time."

Jack doesn't disagree.

"Oh good, you're catching up on the rest of that clusterfuck of an evening," Forth says, snorting as he looks at the television.

Jack nods absently, sitting back down on the edge of his bed while they take the chairs he and Eric had sat in last night.

"What happened to telling them to keep it clean?" he asks, mostly joking because they've been working together long enough he knows he can. That they have more of a sense of humor about these things than most.

"What happened to you just going back to rest?" Rheems counters, eyebrows high. He doesn't look pissed, and neither does Forth, but he knows an explanation for his behavior is required. 

Jack grimaces and forces himself not to look at the trash can to see whether the used condoms are visible. He folds his hands in front of him and squares up his shoulders. "I know. I'm sorry about that. It was personal and it was… it was very important. But it was a one-time deal."

He's lucky he's been here a while, has already established a history during Rheems' tenure not doing things like this. Rookie Jack would've been mortified- if he would've even been brave enough to… no. His other failings aside, he learned a lot while at Samwell about having people's backs first before worrying about the rules, thanks in no small part to Shitty, and driven home permanently by his time on the ice with Bittle.

His coach studies him a moment.

"You find them?" Rheems asks.

Jack nods. Doesn't elaborate and Rheems doesn't press. He's big on trust and respect with his players.

Forth is watching the screen again, his teeth showing as he chews his ever-present gum and snickers at the frankly embarrassing images being replayed of some of the least physical players on the team getting into a graceless scuffle with a too-large D-man from the Racers. 

"Is everyone okay? Anyone I need to have a word with before lunch?"

Rheems sighs, sitting back in his chair. Shakes his head.

"You should probably check in with Mixy. I think you getting hit that hard rattled him a little. Everyone else is a little bruised up but honestly? And don't you even think about repeating this, but-"

"It was fuckin' awesome," Forth says, grinning at him.

Rheems rolls his eyes, casting his associate a stern look. "We're going to be lucky if we don't get some hell from Player Safety. But it was a good chance to shake out some pressure, do some team-building and while I don't condone anyone risking an injury or playing dirty-"

"It was fuckin' awesome."

Jack sighs, scrubs his hands over his face as he tips his head skyward. Then he manages a smile and says, "Sorry I missed it."

Rheems's glance at him is shrewd and speculative, eyes dropping a little to where Jack belatedly realizes a hickey is probably just visible, but he doesn't say anything. He just gets up from his chair and says, "Well, I don't think it's anything to worry about. Just a strange night for the history books. You keep resting as much as you can, and obviously the party line is we don't condone, etc. etc."

"Yep. Gotta wear my grumpy face," Forth says, drawing his bushy eyebrows down into a scowl that's only probably believable for rookies.

Jack sees them out, and then unmutes the TV, not quite as able to take it all so lightly. It's embarrassing, and unprofessional, and he's the captain, he's supposed to be better than that. They're still talking about it, about him, but as he changes out of his tee shirt into something with a collar, he realizes quite suddenly what he's not hearing.

Nobody brings up his anxiety or makes even the most sidelong of references to drugs at his strange behavior. Nobody talks about how he's a risky bet, or a loose cannon, or not living up to his father's legacy. They don't even mention Bad Bob except to joke that he probably would've enjoyed throwing a few on the ice last night on Jack's behalf. 

He sits hard on the end of the bed as he realizes what it means.

He's actually done it. He's here. Five years in, everything he's been waiting for has come to pass. Everything he's been afraid of never happened. And there's just about nothing that can change that.

He's got his phone in his hand before he even realizes it and he has the strangest urge to call his dad. He doesn't call, because he's not sure what he'd say besides "I did it. I made it to the NHL," which is so obvious, so out of date he knows it would only serve to worry him - especially after last night's head injury. 

He loves his dad, and they've come a long way in the intervening years, but there are still some things Bad Bob Zimmermann just doesn't quite get about his son. His maman would understand, but she worries even more than papa. He'd call Shitty, because he would understand completely, but he's still got to tell him about Eric. About… well, there's a lot to tell and he hasn't figured out exactly how he's going to do that. 

**Love you** he texts his parents finally, because the feeling welled up inside him has to go somewhere. 

There's another knock on his door as he's finishing buttoning up his shirt, and he's not surprised. He knows the others will know the coaches came by his room. After last night they'll be up and gossiping as bad as kids in the juniors, wondering just how much trouble they're going to be in. 

He opens the door to Mixy, which is good. Kid's nineteen and he worries about things like this, hasn't been around long enough to know what things matter and what things are just ice spray.

He's also got a black eye and a split lip and Jack looks pointedly at his damaged features.

"Sorry," he says immediately, sounding very rural Ontario.

Jack snorts and walks back into the room and starts packing up his things since it's not like he's really going to get any more rest.

"Are you really okay?" Mixy asks, trailing in after Jack with his hands folded together all cautiously like he isn't built like a tree.

Jack glances at him, takes in the tension in his face, then nods firmly. "I really am. I don't even think I have a concussion, or if I do it wasn't bad. The cut just left me lightheaded more than anything."

"Good. That's good."

Jack looks him over as he hovers near the television, staring at the highlights playing from other games now. 

"You didn't hurt yourself out there, did you?"

Mixy winces. "No. No I barely got into anything at first. I kept thinking about how you say the best comeback is to net one but then Bammy was all…"

Jack sighs. He knows exactly how Bammy was. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if between him and Kumitz, they were the ones responsible for the entire thing going so nuclear.

"What have I told you about listening to Bammy," Quinn says as he bumps through Jack's door, his thick French accent rolling in a patronizing tone. Half because he's french, and half because he's a patronizing asshole.

" _Yeah, but I told him not to listen to you either_ ," Jack tosses off in French, just to watch Quinn scoff and flip him the bird. He's got a bruise starting to show on his cheekbone too, along with a scrape. He's got his long hair tucked into a ponytail like he's showing it off, which he might well be. It's a rare day when Quinn can't outskate someone's bad temper so he really must have earned that one.

"Don't listen to any of them," Kumitz agrees as he follows Quinn in, his voice low and as rough as ever, though he doesn't look particularly worse for the wear. Of course, there's a good chance he could go up against an actual bear and come out much the same. When Jack fixes him with a knowing look, he throws up his hands and says, "Hey, myself included. Shit, Jackie, you missed a good scrum last night."

"So I see," he says, cocking his chin back at the TV where the highlights have rolled back around to their game last night because apparently it was the best thing that's ever happened in hockey, at least in the past month. "I leave the ice for _one game_ and you all turn into a pack of wild dogs."

"Hey, so, what's the story, coaches pissed?" Kumitz asks, slinging one massive arm around Mixy's shoulders and ruffling the kid's shaggy flow.

"A little," Jack says, eyeing them sternly. "Maybe not as much as they should be, but I think everyone better be on their best behavior in Texas."

Kumitz's wide jawed face splits into a grin, reading straight past Jack's attempt at sternness, but then he screws his lips together and nods solemnly. Tips his fingers at his brow and rumbles, "Aye-Aye, skipper."

Mixy's nodding dutifully but Quinn huffs, rolls his eyes and then goes over to perch on one of the chairs beside the table. He picks at a stale fried shrimp on the half-eaten sandwich Eric had abandoned.

"No, I see how it is, you leave us to do the dirty work while you come back to the hotel and eat all the food," he chirps, jabbing the little sea-creature at Jack.

"Like you wouldn't," Kumitz says. "Just don't tell Eddie Jack broke his diet plan. Poor guy has a bet going with Hannity over how long Jack'll keep his perfect record."

Jack rolls his eyes, though he manages to swallow back a reflexive protest that he hadn't broken his diet. Still, the comment has Quinn's eyes sharpening on the multiple distinct platters and then skim with typical nosy interest over the rest of his room.

" _My, my, looks like someone had a guest last night,_ " Quinn says to him after switching back to French. " _Was he good?_ "

Jack glares sharply at him and Kumitz barks a laugh. "Shit, Quinn, that's a grade A Captain's glare you just earned yourself there. What did you _say_?"

"Oh, I think I best not repeat that," Quinn says, his eyes alight with intrigued humor as he looks at Jack. " _Hit a little too close to the truth, did I?_ "

Jack just sighs, closing his eyes a moment because he knows better than to fuel the fire, even if he knows Quinn absolutely won't out him, not after so many years of being discreet. He moves them along firmly by zipping his bag closed and saying, "Well if you're all just going to stand around gossiping, at least let's go somewhere where there's food."

"I like food," Mixy says immediately, which earns Jack an amused glance from Kumitz that means something like _Rookies_.

The others file out ahead of him at his gesture, scattering back towards their rooms to presumably pack their shit but probably mostly gossip. He can hear Bammy hollering "Mittens!" at Kumitz from somewhere down the hall so it won't be long before the whole team is out. Jack takes one last walk around his room, at the empty space.

He looks at his phone but there aren't any new messages. It feels… it's been a long time since he's felt anything quite like that disappointment, that kind of small, personal wistfulness.

But Eric has his number, has Shitty's and Lardo's too, and it's not like he owes Jack anything. If anything it's the other way around.

 **Found him. Gave him your number.** he texts Shitty finally, feeling guilty over leaving him hanging all night for even the minimum confirmation. 

**Jack Zimmermann you magnificent fucking creature. can't talk now, got court in 5, but how is he? Is he ok?**

Jack stares at the screen a moment, then looks at the room with its half-eaten food and condom wrappers like it can tell him the answer. He thinks about scarred skin and simple phones. Sweet lips and strong hands. Tired eyes and absent notes goodbye. Is he okay? It feels like such a small word for such a big question.

 **Maybe.** he says finally.

He hopes so.

 

Despite the Coaches' half-hearted efforts and Jack's best attempt at a stern face, team lunch quickly devolves into giddy recaps of the previous night for Jack's benefit, each story getting bigger and more fanciful and confused with each retelling. 

It's like being back in the juniors, or back on a Samwell roadie, and looking at them, at their bright faces and grins for _him_ , Jack feels a little like after last night's shakeup, his eyes have been opened to some things. Things he'd neglected to notice for a while now. 

They have fun, this team. They love their jobs and they click, and it's something Jack of old couldn't have really imagined when he'd been drowning under the pressure of it all. It's not to say they don't work hard, that they don't have their ups and downs and the losses don't hurt, but it's a good place to be. 

It's a _great_ place to be, and he should remember to enjoy that. But it still isn't everything. And for the first time Jack can remember, he finds himself admitting that maybe it isn't _enough_. 

Suddenly Bammy is standing up at the end of the table, a coffee mug in his hand and one boot planted on Kumitz's meaty thigh for no clear reason than to be obnoxious as he calls out, "On this fateful eve in Atlanta, in the wake of our dear Captain Jack's untimely demise-"

"To Captain Jack," Kumitz chants, hoisting his own coffee mug.

"Captain Jack," the others call out, with foot-stomping attempts at unison.

"Good god," Jack groans, dropping his head in his hands because this is it, there'll be no stopping them now. With Porridge sneaking his phone up behind Mixy's flush-faced body-shield to video-record this, it's going to get posted on the internet and never die, he just knows it.

"I, Sir Bammy, defender of the great land of Providence-"

Rheems is managing at best half an unimpressed eyeroll and Forth is just cracking his gum, laughing outright, so Jack just gives up and pulls out his own phone to capture this, because really. 

Only there's a new notification - a text from an unknown number.

He swallows, and the team is watching his reaction, retelling epic tales on _his behalf_ so he makes himself ignore it and record the absurd retelling of something that he's about 75% certain didn't actually happen now, then the next few warrior-stories as the bit catches on - right up until Hannity walks in and whistles for everyone's attention, completely unbothered that she's capping off Porridge's story because it's time to board the bus for the airport and such things are sacred.

He doesn’t make himself wait until he's settled on the bus before he opens the new text, though. As soon as eyes are off him he's flicking through the screen to the texts and tapping open the new message.

 **What would have happened if I hadn't left this morning?**

His heart stutters as he stares at the message. The number is unknown but there's no mistaking who it could possibly be from. He saves the number immediately, then considers his reply.

 **I don't know** he writes honestly, **But I would have been glad to find out**

He stares at the message for a long moment, then quickly adds **we still can**

It's too late to go back seven years, to fight harder to find out what happened to his winger, to have not screwed up as captain to the point where Bittle hadn't trusted him enough to… it's too late for that. But suddenly there are… options. Future what-ifs that are there for the taking. A story that isn't as finite as it had once seemed.

There's no reply for the distance of the trip to the airport, not through the tediums of security or the followup exam from Dr. Hines that okays him to fly and sit on backup in Dallas. He tries not to worry that he'd delayed too long waiting to reply. He doesn't take the call from his maman, though he texts her an update, because he doesn't want to miss Eric's response. A response that still doesn't come. When he checks his phone for about the hundredth time at their gate, Quinn arches a slender eyebrow at him, a knowing look on his face and Jack puts the phone away, for a while at least.

It isn't until they're boarding that his phone finally vibrates with another message.

**Okay. Maybe we can. Are you still at the hotel?**

Jack swears, loud enough that it turns nearby heads and Kumitz asks, "Alright there, Cap?"

"Fine," Jack answers shortly as he types **Airport. Team's flying to Dallas** , not bothering to dissemble or hide what he's doing because he doesn't care, he realizes. He doesn't care anymore about them knowing - not at the risk of missing this window.

He drops his bag on his seat instead of sitting down like the others and types out a quick - **Can you come? I'll fly you to Dallas.**

He doesn't wait for the answer, just switches over to the website for the airline he has an account with already and finds a flight a little later in the afternoon for Atlanta to Dallas. He buys it in Eric's name because even if he doesn't take it, the money barely means anything to him, not so little. Not for this.

"Sir, if you would take your seat and put your phone away," a flight attendant asks for what is probably the second time, sounding vaguely annoyed.

"Sorry," he says, still fixed on his phone, waiting for the page to load the confirmation of the purchase and Mixy slides Jack's bag down under the seat for him and makes room for Jack to sit, which he does, but he doesn't put his phone away.

He stares at the screen, waiting for it to populate through.

"Excuse me, Sir-"

"I'm sorry, please, just a minute," he says, knowing he sounds more desperate than he should. He's not even sure why this feels so important right now, but it does.

"Miss, excuse me," he hears Bammy say, drawing the flight attendant's attention away with what sounds like might be the first questions that pop into his mind. Running interference.

Jack stops listening, because his phone gets another message.

**Jack**

Just that. Just his name. He grunts in frustration, but the email pops up with the confirmation and he copies it into the text message window.

**You have a ticket now. Please come. Even if it's just for one more night.**

He winces at the way that could come across, tries to figure out a way to fix it, but the Pilot is coming onto the overhead, rambling on about their departure and the bins are being clicked closed behind them so he just hopes Eric will understand that Jack being awkward is one of the things that hasn't changed.

 **Have to go. Taking o-**

" _Sir_."

He finishes the word and hits send, but it's enough. The anxious part of him wants to worry, wants to doubt that it's enough, but the ticket's there, and if Eric misses that one, he'll buy him another one. He'll work something out. Obediently he turns his phone off under the flight attendant's frowning gaze with an apologetic smile. She eventually heads to her seat once he buckles in too, and they start rolling away from the gate, leaving him to breathe through the residual adrenaline.

He nods his thanks over at Bammy and Kumitz, who are watching him with the steady focus that seems unique to life-long D-men, and Kumitz quirks a curious eyebrow at him, but they relax.

"Everything okay?" Mixy asks quietly.

Jack nods, exhaling slowly and carefully as he tries to calm his heart again. He makes himself smile at the rookie and shrug off the things he can't do anything about till they land. "Yeah, just a personal thing."

But Mixy's face falls a little as he sits back quietly, though he covers over it by digging into his bag for something. Headphones he can't even use yet.

Jack thinks suddenly of another first-year, with wide brown eyes and such hopeful determination. With a smile that got ever so slightly dimmer or more hesitant around him with every brusque word, every untempered criticism and with every unelaborated "I'm fine."

"I…" he begins, and Mixy's eyes are on him instantly. Jack can't even really imagine what it must be like, being here at nineteen. Playing on a line with people that represent no less than legends of his adolescence. How every word could be taken to heart.

It's just… he's so used to hiding things like this. Hiding everything, really, anything that could be a vulnerability. Shutting people out of anything in his life that isn't hockey, what little of that there remains. And that's not how it's supposed to be. Not really. He's come a long way that he realizes that, but eventually understanding that isn't enough.

"Last night, when I got hit," he says quietly but calmly, "I saw someone in the stands. Someone I used to play with - haven't seen him for seven years. He just disappeared one summer, I never knew what happened to him."

Mixy's eyes are wide and he swipes a hand through the fringe of hair laying over his forehead.

"I found him. Now I'm trying not to lose him again."

"Wow," Mixy says, fiddling with his headphones. He smiles cautiously when Jack doesn't elaborate further and sits back as he says, "That's amazing. Um. Just let me know if I can do anything."

Jack nods his thanks, sits back in his seat and digs out his own headphones. He doesn't put them on. He just holds them in his fingers, looping the cord slowly around, back and forth in little figure-eights. Like figure-skating passes on the ice.

The plane takes off, the guys talk and sleep around him, so familiar an environment it does something to ease the knot that still sits in his chest. He can still feel it as they climb, the sky brightening above the layered clouds till side-windows get shut one after another by sleepy hockey players, but it's a little less heavy a feeling.

Right up until the moment it occurs to him the feeling of knowing a team has his back is a privilege Eric has been profoundly without.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyyyy lookit that. I managed to stop watching playoff games long enough to polish up the chapter.  
> I had the Falcs headed to Dallas before I really had any feel for the Stars as a team, so, take any characterizations of them with a grain of salt. They're barely mentioned anyway, just for narrative purposes on the ice it's easier to have names in place.  
> Also what are conferences? Irrelevant, that's what. I'm making up teams anyway so, who knows how the conferences would be aligned and also, yeah, okay you don't care at all do you hahaha. MOVING ON.  
> Oh and depending on how you read it (to me it matters whether there's intent behind certain kinds of dirty talk to read it different ways, and there's no intent here), there's a little hint of some d/s overtones in this chapter. It's not much, more because of reactions to certain sexual scripts and experiences than anything else- definitely not headed that kinky way in general or anything so I'm not tagging it but *shrug*. Forewarned is forearmed.

As Jack looks up at the screen hanging overhead and sees his face, he wonders if Eric's watching the game on tv. He tries to imagine him in some busy sports bar, but it's hard to picture somehow.

The ice spray actually feels cold for once instead of pleasantly cool from Jack's position at the side of the bench box when Kumitz skids to a stop in front of the open gate as Sutter hops down onto the ice to switch in for him as they approach the end of the first period. 

Jack never enjoys not playing, but tonight is worse, it gives him time to think between passes, to run his eyes over the stands where Eric would be, if he'd come. When they'd landed, Jack had texted him to let him know he'd arrived, what hotel they're booked into. He'd texted that he could arrange another flight if that one didn't work.

There'd been no response.

The stadium is huge here, because it's Texas, and there's a good attendance but it's not sold out. He scans the seats, even though he knows better than to even hope, now. If Eric had taken the flight, he'd've been here by now. He'd have messaged Jack or…

He almost asks Rheems to put him in for after the intermission, even though he's not technically been cleared for play, because he knows he's fine to get out there. It's not like it's playoff, but the Stars are good, worth making extra effort to combat so there's an unspoken understanding that if they really need him out there, Dr. Hines will sign off on it. But they're doing fine without him. Better than fine, actually, and it'd be stupid and selfish to undermine them and risk a worsened injury by bulling his way out there.

So he bites his tongue and keeps it bitten when the whistle sounds to end the period and the team shuffles off to the locker room.

He does his part to model attentiveness and focus as Rheems details his analysis of their play so far, of the weaknesses he's seeing in their opponents. But for once, Jack's not actually hearing much of anything that's being said. 

Thankfully the coaches aren't expecting his input, or perhaps sense his slight lack of presence, because they don't prompt him to contribute. Forth just glances at him, checks to see if he has anything to say and because he doesn't, even though he should, normally would, he shakes his head and Forth just forges on. It makes him shake off some of his distraction, though. Makes him resolve to pay better attention.

"… going to come out hard, try and gain momentum so don't let them shake you up. Tighten it up, get that momentum going and keep your helmets on straight," Forth orders the defense as the intermission time starts to close, his glower not even remotely convincing to anyone who knows him. Jack catches at least a few amused looks getting exchanged.

Rheems sends them out and Jack follows up the coaches' wrap with thumps on shoulders as players pass him to line up in the tunnel. The solemn nods he gets and the number of bruised faces he counts are humbling, a reminder of just how much they have his back. As he brings even with the rear of the group, though, Bammy grins wickedly. Jack jabs a finger at him.

"Hey. Be good," he warns as they head out towards the rink, since he knows it'll be Bammy who sets the tone on the ice without Jack there. "Keep it clean."

"Hark. Words of warning came to me. It was as though the ghost of our dear, departed Captain-" Bammy intones loudly to scattered laughter before Kumitz smacks him on the back of his helmet.

"Crisse," Jack mutters under his breath, but the damage is done.

"For Captain Jack!" Porridge dares to shout from his position near the front of the line, and before Jack can do so much as groan, the rest of the team takes it up in a roar as they charge out onto the rink.

And as he watches them race out ahead of him to check the ice and loosen up again before the period starts anew, he's hit with a pang of nostalgia from back at Samwell, for a time when he first began to understand that there was more to playing hockey than playing hockey.

He loses himself into the game before too long because living hockey is what he does. Game footage is a great tool, but there's nothing quite like being on the ice at eye-level to get a feel for how his team is playing, so he's not going to pass up the chance to study them. 

Two minutes in he watches as Mixy slows as he shakes off a particularly hard check against the boards. They should be switching to defense, but Porridge dives into the chase for the puck with a stumble that has him bruising down hard over his knee and tripping over his feet in his desperation to move. 

It's not even a play that'll go anywhere, Jack could tell the second the puck had turned over. Quinn's already ahead, slips into the middle of the Stars's pass and diverts it off behind the goal to give Mixy a chance to get back into it. Korowitz on defense slaps it on back along the boards to keep the Stars from getting too deep in their side, sending them all chasing back to the neutral zone before they can play it and just a few moments later, one of the Stars players pulls up gameplay with a premature pass that earns him an offsides call and has Forth signaling a shift-change in the break.

Porridge is panting when he skates up to the gate and piles in with the others, swearing under his breath as his frustration rumbles.

"Porridge, calm the fuck down," Jack calls, leaning forward to thump the kid's pads. He doesn't blame him for getting excited. Getting to go out as starting Center for the game is a pretty amazing feeling. Since Jack takes more ice time than not with doubling up on special teams, normal games don't leave him as many opportunities for it even when his shift comes out. 

"Promiň," Porridge says breathlessly, nodding. The glance he shoots back Jack's way looks a little anxious though. Like he thinks Jack's disappointed in him.

He's not. He's not at all.

"You're doing good," he says quickly, leaning forward to talk over his shoulder. "Just don't get ahead of yourself. Keep your eyes open and keep breathing."

Reckless and hyper works for some players, players who get loose and feed on instinct and passion, but guys like Porridge do best at alert but steady. Calm enough to keep their eyes open and predict the moves of players like Mixy. He'll probably never be a legend, never be a household name, but Porridge is the kind of player who'll have a solid fifteen-year NHL career if he keeps his head on straight and doesn't get himself injured. He'll get better every year as he keeps building experience.

When Jack looks up, Forth is watching the exchange. He cracks his gum and looks generally approving before he turns his attention back to the ice.

 

In the third they're still tied up at 0 but they're getting more shots on goal, putting more pressure on the goalie and keeping at it. By the time they send the first string back out even Bammy's on target, leaving the Stars over their toes like they're expecting them to be reckless still. Porridge is observably calmer and more focused and it looks like it's going to pay off when first string comes back out on fresh legs and Porridge gets Mixy set up for a clear lane on the goal on their first run. Although Lehtonen blocks the shot with a frankly stunning split, it's tidy and because Mixy makes a good snap and Porridge has chosen the play option that has the best chance for sending the ricochet Quinn's way, it's definitely them on the right track because oh so smoothly Quinn steals the puck and spins fast on the back corner, ready to snap it in- 

Oleksiak hooks Quinn's ankle with his stick in a cheap snag that should get called for tripping though it doesn't, and it'd probably be fine, Quinn's light on his feet but Jordie Benn comes in the other side way too hot and low to be anything but vicious in defense of his goal, sending him crashing high over his hip, head-and-shoulder-first into the boards and he goes down hard.

Jack's on his feet on a frozen shout, but Quinn is already - albeit slowly - getting up as Benn races the puck back up ice. It doesn't get called as a penalty, which is frustrating and Forth is shouting at the linesman for tripping or charging or boarding but the puck's still in play. 

"Go!" Rheems is shouting.

Because Porridge is skating head-high after Benn instead of the guy who actually has the puck, looks like he's spoiling for a fight he's way too small for - which they don't need after last night - while Mixy's still looking back at Quinn and half the bench is shouting at them to concentrate (albeit in somewhat more colorful terms).

But there's a reason there are alternate captains on the ice. It's well in hand after the puck crosses the center line. 

Bammy cuts in and checks Hemsky, forces the puck back towards Benn and Kumitz goes in hot. Before Benn can pass the puck, Kumitz uses his significant weight to slam him hard off his skates and skidding sideways into the boards. Hard enough that the hit echoes through the stadium and the crowd snarls in rage and thrill.

As Benn huddles on the ice and gathers himself, Stars players shout for a penalty. They all know the hit was intentional but nobody starts a fight, maybe because it's Kumitz, maybe because it's mostly fair, or maybe because the Stars aren't generally short-fused assholes. The refs don't call a penalty maybe because it's not the very beginning of the season anymore but also nowhere near playoffs, or maybe because Benn saw him coming and it was very carefully the sort of hit where there's no indication Kumitz wasn't just doing his job. 

The fans don't like it, but Benn just grumbles a few choice words to an unimpressed Kumitz as he makes his way off the ice and the rest of the rink is a smooth flurry of players switching in and out on both sides. Jack folds his arms and watches them all.

Jack keeps his face neutral while the rest of the guys slap their sticks against the boards, because he's the captain. He knows there's a camera on his face as Kumitz skates up early in his shift to switch for Sutteridge and break the tension, but he makes eye contact so Kumitz knows he's pleased the message was sent, even if it was done a little dirtier than he would've handled it if he'd been on the ice. 

"Tu vas bien?" he asks as Quinn drags himself through the gate with his off-side arm and sits down on the bench by Jack, waving off Michelle from coming over to check him out.

Quinn nods at him, then breathes out, "J'ai juste eu le souffle coupé."

He takes another steadying breath or two, then smiles at Jack as he shakes out his arms a little, gently stretching his torso out of the reflex to lock up after a hit.

Jack should be able to relax, he should. Nothing's wrong, but his heart is still pounding, and he's not unaware of the fact that he's being influenced by a particularly emotion-laden memory of the time he'd let Bittle down in a similar play. He'd carried that one in the wings for months after it had happened, had never really let it go because of the lesson it'd taught him even if he'd pushed the memories themselves into the shadows. But they're not in the shadows anymore. Now every part of that year is center ice again, bright under the lights, and even though he knows it's not rational, some little part of him in the back of his brain feels like maybe if he had stopped that, he could've stopped everything else. 

He has to focus on his breathing a moment, and Quinn nudges him, dark brows wrinkling together as he studies Jack's face. Jack just shakes his head a little, shakes off the intrusive feeling as he sucks in cold rink air and the clatter of sticks on the ice brings him back to the game.

When he looks back out at the game, Mixy's won the face-off and is using the break in momentum to his advantage, taking a fast and wild drive up the left. At the same time, Porridge is screening focus wide and obvious and is ignored and when Mixy push-shoots it and it's fast enough to rebound, Porridge is right there to snap it straight into the open net on the other side.

Calm. Focused. Eyes open. Just like Jack had said.

It's the first of what turns out to be three goals in the second half of the third and while the Stars answer back twice, it's not enough and the Falcs take it. The boys cheer, they pile on Porridge and Jack stays long enough to participate in the immediate good cheer, but heads out the tunnel as soon as they start skating back out to bump gloves.

When he gets to his locker, getting out his phone is the first thing he does.

There's nothing.

And for once, he's glad he has a reputation for being dour and unresponsive at times, because it makes it easier to not seem noticeably different now when he musters a probably lackluster smile for their win and dutifully congratulates everyone on their good night as they storm into the locker room in a moving mountain of good cheer.

He does make a point to say, "You did really well tonight," to Porridge, who is grinning at all of them, high on the win, as he should be. 

He thumps Jack's shoulder with a grin and, with his normally-mild Czech accent leaking through in his excitement, says, "Thanks, Cap. You were exactly right, I wasn't focused. Once I settled down and got those assists going to Mixy-"

"It was all sweet sauce from there," Kumitz rumbles in a tone that - not unkindly - reminds him that they were all actually there for the game they just played in, slinging a hairy arm around the kid's neck. "So, what's the plan. We goin' out?"

"Yes," Porridge says immediately, bolt upright and looking around. "Mixy? You want to pick?"

Mixy's coming out of the showers ahead of everyone, swiping his hair out of his face. He smiles, ducks his head and says, "No. Sorry. My wife flew out. She's got like, two weeks off from classes right now and I haven't seen her in person since October, so."

"So bring her with," Porridge says, like it's obvious.

"Man hasn't seen his wife. For _months_ ," Kumitz leans down and reiterates and understanding dawns on Porridge's features while Mixy blushes and hurries to get dressed.

"More girls for me. Old married man. Hah!" Porridge declares with a laugh. "Not like it matter. Good thing she married to you since you've got no game anyway."

Mixy throws a towel at him and Porridge makes kissy faces in return, sighing out horrible mocking sweet-talking that slips into Czech but it makes little difference.

"Gamins," Quinn mutters as he strolls past with an ice-pack on his shoulder, rolling his eyes at Jack in shared amusement at their expense. 

It still hits Jack somewhere near his sternum, thinking about this _kid_ , this nineteen-year-old having someone like that, someone to rush home to, to celebrate with. Jack, more than ten years his senior, still clinging to friendships from college with people who've all moved on with their lives. To his parents. When what he really wants is-

"Cap, you gonna go rest that noggin of yours?" Kumitz says, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Uh," he says, then smiles tightly, grateful for the phrasing. "Yeah, I think I'd better."

And Porridge looks a little bit disappointed, but also maybe a little bit relieved. Jack is too mentally worn out to bother starting to interpret that so he just quietly strips out of his uniform and slips into his suit and heads out for the night while the others talk about which local bar is most likely to have amenable girls who aren't puck bunnies for the Stars alone.

His phone is cool in his hand as he slips past the press with a vague gesture at his head at Hannity that has her frowning at him, but nodding shortly before getting back to it. There are only a few Falconers fans hanging around the exit out in the dry evening air, and he does stop to quickly do a few autographs for people so far from Providence, even joins a few of the selfies, though he feels a strange ache at the thought of ones he didn't join in with seven years ago.

As he walks off the stadium campus towards where some regular street life is lit in city lights, he stares at the string of outgoing messages and the lack of incoming ones on his phone, looking at them critically, like a post-game analysis, trying to figure out where he screwed up. It's only a few blocks to their hotel and not being on the ice has left him tense, too much for his skin. The walk will help, maybe, maybe get him out of his head a little. 

It never fails to amaze him how only a block away from the rink, he's out past the bubble of the hockey universe. It's crowded with post-game traffic, but mostly the city is filled with people who are in a world of their own that never intersects his. When he stops at a crosswalk, waiting for the signal with a few people dressed for dinner or an art gallery or something like that, he listens to a woman vaguely remark to her companion how there must have been 'some sporting event' that'd happened as they watch a car with Stars-gear clad occupants roll by. It's good, usually, to remind himself of that, but tonight it just makes him feel like a lonely fool.

He wants to write **we won. wish you'd been there** but he can't decide whether it'd sound petulant because it almost is. He also wants to be excited about it instead of numb, to have Eric here to celebrate with him like they used to because that's easy, that's something they both understand. He composes a message. Erases it. Writes another as he walks.

**I'm sorry you couldn't come but it was silly for me to think you could come on such short notice** he types out eventually. And he hesitates a moment, but then he adds, **It wasn't a one-time offer. I still want to see you**

When his phone starts ringing a moment later, he almost doesn't believe it, that it's not someone else calling, but it's Eric's number, and he hurries to answer before Eric can change his mind.

"Eric?" he says, fumbling his phone up to his ear.

"Hi Jack," Eric replies, sounding hesitant, like maybe he already regrets making the call.

This whole thing has felt so tenuous from the beginning, so fragile a connection that could be easily sheared with the wrong move, the wrong hesitation. But it's better than it'd started out. It scares him to consider how close he'd come to missing him the first time, at the stadium in Atlanta.

"I'm glad you called," Jack says, hoping it's the right thing. 

"Why?" Eric shoots back, heaving a short puff of breath that crackles the audio with its frustration. "Why do you even _care_ about…"

Jack's left speechless for a moment, because he doesn't have a _reason_. They barely know each other. But he _feels_ it. It's something, it means something. He does care, even if he can't explain it.

"Sorry, that was rude," Eric says, breathing out on a slow sigh. "It's just been a long time since…"

Since whatever happened? Since anyone from Samwell was a part of his life?

"I'm sorry," Jack says as he dodges around a group of laughing teenagers that sprawl out of a pho restaurant.

Eric's quiet a moment, then he scoffs, "Don't think there's anything for you to be sorry for." 

Jack doesn't argue with him, but he doesn't agree either. He just marches onwards, trying to think of how he's supposed to manage to hang onto this.

"You mattered to me," he says eventually, because even if it doesn't really explain anything, it's true. "You still do. You matter. Is that okay?"

Eric laughs. "You never do anything by halves, do you Jack Zimmermann," he muses, sounding exasperated but more fond than uncomfortable.

"No," Jack agrees, because it's true to a fault. He swallows as he glances up, checks the traffic lights and then jogs across the crosswalk at the flashing red, more than ready to not be in public anymore for this conversation.

"What is this? What are we doing here, Jack?" Eric asks softly. 

"I don't know," Jack says, breathing out a tight breath through his nose. "Just… talking? Can we talk?" 

Eric is quiet, doesn't answer him but he doesn't hang up, so Jack forges on with, "Whatever you want. Like, how are you? What's your life like? What are you doing now?"

"Well, _right_ now I'm screwing up my sleep schedule something fierce," Eric says, laughing faintly.

"Oh." 

It's not that late, even an hour behind, so Eric must keep very early hours. Jack feels the sharp jab of embarrassment again over his self-centeredness, in assuming that the hours he's kept for most of his life are what everyone does.

"Sorry. I could, we could talk-"

"I couldn't sleep anyway," Eric interrupts in falling tones, a susurrus of fabric shifting coming through as he adds, "Couldn't stop thinking about…"

As he walks up to the hotel's bay of sliding doors, Jack's mind goes immediately to one night prior, to fingers on his wrists, to pumpkin-flavored kisses and bruises on the inside of his thighs. Desire curls hot and hard in his belly.

"Neither can I," he admits, his voice dropping low of its own volition, even as he realizes there are other ways that sentence may have ended than where his thoughts went. 

He swallows when he hears Eric breathing in and then exhaling shakily on the line. 

The hotel lobby is lively with some crowd that sprawls beyond the confines of the restaurant and bar. Convention-goers or something, he's not sure, and he grimaces as they drift in laughing, chattering blobs that impede any reasonable paths of forward movement towards the elevators. Grunting in frustration, he scans the lobby for the sign marking the stairs.

"Where are you?" Eric asks, voice a little lighter and a little breathless in a way that makes Jack's pulse stumble upwards.

"Hotel lobby. I'm on my way to my room."

"Good," Eric says, a tense edge of anticipation making his voice come low and even.

Jack weaves his way past the crowd, getting to the stairwell door and heading up the stairs. He pins the phone between his shoulder and ear as he fumbles for his wallet where he's stashed the room key, because he's not sure which floor he's on, but he runs up the stairs anyway to get a head start.

"I've been trying to sleep for hours," Eric tells him, his voice taking on a sultry whine, a tone that says his complaint isn't said so as to criticize but to entangle. 

"Have you?" Jack asks as he gets to the fourth floor, snags the handle on the heavy door and strides through. The task of getting to his room isn't enough to keep his imagination from forming thoughts of Eric tangled naked in the sheets, lips bitten and hair tousled as he tosses and turns.

"I kept thinking about you," Eric tells him, half accusation, half promise. "I kept thinking about what happened last night, what we did. And then I thought about how I could've been _there_ now, watching the game instead of just following the tweets."

"I think I missed half the game thinking about you," Jack replies as he swipes his card into the reader wrong, flips it, then swipes it again for the green light. The door bounces against the wall as he steps in and then closes itself behind him as he tosses his bag down.

"I was thinking about what would happen after," Eric admits, voice soft. "If I were there with you tonight."

"Anything you want," Jack promises, standing tense and waiting at the foot of the bed, waiting to see which way the conversation is going to fall.

"Oh," Eric says, tone warm and liquid as he hums softly. "And if I wanted your mouth on me?"

Jack closes his eyes, sucking in a deep breath, free hand curling tight to his belly.

"Anything you want," he says again. Swallows. "Gladly."

Eric sighs, and Jack doesn't know how to interpret it. Whether its disappointment in the ineloquent response, or in the choice not to come to Texas, or something else. 

"Where are you now?" Eric asks, voice so soft.

"My hotel room," Jack says, then adds, "Alone."

"Good. Good, me too. I…" Eric begins, then hesitates. There's a rustling over the phone and then Eric says, "Hey, this might be a long-shot, but do you have skype?"

Jack huffs a breath, but doesn't bother getting indignant since it's the only social-media type technology he's really managed to master, and mostly only as far as so he can talk to his parents and Shitty. 

"Yes."

"Can I call you?" Eric asks. "I want to look at you."

"Oais," Jack agrees immediately, because he definitely wants to see Eric in return. "I… my name was already taken," he says, which for some reason makes Eric snicker. "But I got JLZimmermann."

"Okay. I'll call you," Eric says, then promptly hangs up.

Jack looks around the room for his laptop bag, grabs it out and opens it quickly to try and connect to the wifi. The sound of the app opening is one he feels reflected uncomfortably in his chest, breathing in in sharp anticipation. But he clicks it up quickly, hands curled in wait against the edge of the computer. 

The call comes and he answers it, realizes he's looming over the camera and stands up, pulls out the chair to sit down at the table and look at the screen.

Eric's in a dark room, the corner of the wall and the edge of a dark curtained window all that's visible behind him. He's, leaning against a plain headboard and worn pillow whose case doesn't match the sheets. The laptop isn't on his lap, it's a little further back and Jack can see his legs folded in front of him under the covers. He's wearing a thin tank top that's loose at the neck, stretched out enough that when he sits back, one of his nipples flashes past the edge.

The light of the screen creates bold highlights and shadows on his face and he looks beautiful, haunting, and Jack knows he'd never had a chance at indifference about this man, not even at the beginning.

"Hi," Jack says.

"Hi," Eric replies.

"Thank you," Jack says. "For changing your mind."

Eric chews on his lip, fingers pulling at the edge of his rumpled sheets as he tilts his head down a little. His eyes trace over the screen, and he sighs softly and says, "Still not sure this isn't all a terrible idea. Lord, I don't know what even possessed me to go to that game."

Jack swallows and looks down at his hands as they curl reflexively against the idea of never having found him again, and Eric makes a soft sound.

"Oh, no, honey, don't… I didn't mean it like that."

Jack shakes his head quickly, "No, I just… I'm glad you did."

"Well I think I'm getting the better end of the deal right now. I look like a hot mess," Eric says, voice going deliberately light and teasing as he combs his fingers through his rumpled bed-hair. "You look real good. So professional and handsome."

Jack smooths his fingers down over his tie - silvery-grey, something with little subtle white diamonds embroidered into it. A shade lighter than his blue-grey suit. He smiles. "Rans - or I guess I should say Doctor Oluransi now, if you believe it - will be pleased you think so. He always helps me pick these things."

Eric makes a soft sound and folds his arms over his knees and leans his chin down on his well-toned forearms. His look of curiosity is guarded, but it's there, so Jack keeps talking.

"And. Adam, he's, he just kindof followed Justin. Said he didn't know what he wanted to do with his degree but he knew he wanted to stay with Justin, so," he shrugs. "They just moved to Vancouver for Justin's residency."

Eric's face does something complicated at that and he curls his mouth, eyes sparkling a little. "So… are they like, together?"

Jack tilts his head and says, "No?"

Eric snickers. "You don't sound too sure of that."

Jack pulls at his tie absently as he considers. "I mean… nothing's really changed about how they are with each other since back at Samwell, at least not around me. But they moved to another country together. And it's been a long time since they've dated anyone else."

Eric wiggles his eyebrows and Jack laughs, shrugs. "Yeah. As Shitty would say, it's all circumstantial. They've never explicitly said they were together like that, so, that's what matters, I guess. What they want to share."

"And Shitty? How's he doing?"

"Good. He's good. Tired a lot, we haven't been talking as much lately because he's working at a really intense firm in New York. Doing stuff like fighting big media corporations on fair use and transformative works or against bad contracts for artists. He and Lardo _are_ together, in a complicated way I don't really understand but…" he shrugs, smiling. "I think they're happy. And she's doing what she does, you know, making amazing art. Living life intensely. I try to go to her openings when I can." 

"That's good," Eric murmurs, smiling but looking a little melancholy around the edges.

Jack doesn't know what else to say. He hasn't really kept in touch with anyone else from Samwell that Bitty would've known. 

"You should take that off," Eric says.

Jack looks up at him, brows lifted in question as he goes still.

"Your tie," Eric says, lifting his chin to point at Jack's chest, where his fingers have tangled in the silk again. "You've been fiddling with it. You should take it off if it's uncomfortable."

Jack regards the silk a moment, and it could easily be as innocuous as it sounds but he knows it isn't. His heart wouldn't be accelerating like this if it were. Carefully, he shifts his fingers to his throat, watches Eric's face on the screen as he unthreads the knot and drags it loose. Eric's eyes are fixed on his motions, intent, and Jack sucks in a deep breath as the silk comes free. He rolls it as a habit, and also for something to do as he waits for whatever's next.

"Better?" Eric asks softly, eyes drifting back up from Jack's hands.

Jack nods, not wanting say anything that might break the thread that has grown taut between them.

Eric runs his lip between his teeth, studying him. Then he says, "You should unbutton your shirt too. I swear, it's like it's painted on. Looks good, but can't be comfortable all buttoned tight."

Jack nods again and moves to obey, loosening the starched shirt at his throat first, and he knows he could stop there, that maybe Eric really had just meant that. But he doesn't want to stop, and the intent look in Eric's eyes tells him he doesn't either, so Jack continues freeing the little buttons down his torso without stopping. He leans back a little, shifts his hips so he can pull the shirttails free from his trousers. It makes the fine wool press over his crotch as he moves, makes him very aware of how easily his body is responding to even a hint of sex from Eric.

He parts the fabric when he's finished, lets it fall open to bare his skin to Eric's view.

"And oh, gosh," Eric says after a moment, his mouth curving as he affects faux-serious tone and looks Jack over. "That jacket's got to go too sweetheart. You'll get too warm there in Texas."

Jack stands up slowly, shifts so that he can shrug the jacket off and toss it towards the bed. When he looks back at the screen, Eric's lower lip is snagged between his teeth and his eyes are lingering on what the little picture tells him is a fairly well-framed image of the way he's ruining the line of his trousers.

Feeling emboldened, knowing this is where they've been heading, he runs his palm down his belly and over his groin, allowing himself one firm, slow touch. Showing both of them just how hard he's getting. 

"Oh my yes, that does look uncomfortable doesn't it?" Eric murmurs, the teasing edge of his voice fading, like it's half forgotten. "Maybe you should take those pants off too. Maybe you should take all of it off."

"Maybe?" Jack asks, letting his fingers drag back up again, arousal trickling hot and tight down his chest and to his hips, tangled and twisting through him enough to make his hand tremble.

"Definitely," Eric breathes decisively, leaning closer. "Oh, you should definitely do that."

Jack starts in on his belt without delay, maybe even rushing a little in his anticipation mixing with the flicker of embarrassment, exposure at doing this, stripping down for the camera. But it's Eric, and somehow he just knows, with as much certainty as he knows how a puck feels when it lands on his stick, that he can trust him, can bare himself here without risking anything worse than affectionate chirping.

He toes off his shoes and gets his pants undone, slows down a little so as not to trip himself up but drags the fabric down his thighs all in a bundle. Eric makes a pretty little sound as Jack gets bared to him, cock bobbing with his motions as he steps out of his trousers and kicks the clothes away from his feet.

After a moment he sits back down, because this isn't just about his dick in the pale light of the computer screen. This isn't some faceless internet hookup. He shifts the screen so that if he slouches a little he can get his thighs up to his face in the camera's view, his erection laying up against his belly. Watching Eric watch him is enough to send a further spark of arousal through him, his cock twitching under the attention. His fingers curl against the chair's arms and dick aches to be touched but he waits instead, waits to let Eric tell him what he wants next.

And Eric just looks at him a moment, just rakes his eyes over the sight of him laid out and waiting. Finally, after what feels like forever he says in soft tones, "You gonna touch yourself for me sweetheart? Show me how you like that pretty uncut cock of yours handled?"

It warms Jack's face to hear him say it so comfortably, drawling through the dirty talk like it's the weather. It's not an order, exactly, but it's close enough that Jack nods again reflexively and finally unclenches one of the hands he has clutching the chair's arm. He curls the cup of his palm around the head of his cock, gently squeezing a moment before he twists his wrist, drags his foreskin along the slick, sensitive glans.

He rolls his palm around, lets the skin slide back and then does it again, twisting till it aches just a little. He knows he'll go hard, fast and rough after he gets going. Tight and reckless like a desperate power drive up the center ice. For the moment, though, he's already so hard, the skin so hot and full under his fingers he needs to ease into it. He twists again, and this time he drags down on the return, runs his palm curled tight down the shaft so that the thin skin pulls and teases at the tip.

It sends a shudder through him when he glances back up, catches the hungry look in Eric's eyes, and he turns his face against his shoulder to run his warmed cheek against his skin. It's an approximation of what it'd be like to be touching Eric again. A way to soothe against the way his hand threatens to tremble when he jerks his hand along faster, rougher for the voyeuristic pleasure of Eric.

He makes a sound that he can't quite stifle as he looks back at the screen and picks up his pace, wrist working in a way that's too familiar, too ingrained to be just from this. Like hockey is all his body really understands. 

"Fuck," Eric murmurs, "What you do to me, Jack, I'm so hard right now it _hurts_. Lord."

"Show me," Jack says, his words coming out half demand, half plea, but it doesn't matter because Eric's nodding. 

Eric kicks at the sheets, getting his legs freed and peeling himself out of his baggy shirt. He shoves his hand into the waistband of his shorts and tugs himself up, shifts the fabric so that it snugs down under his balls and leaves him exposed to Jack's view. His cock is cut, unlike Jack's. The head is red with arousal, the skin tight and glistening only at the tip with precome. He strokes those deft fingers over it, a quick rough pass before he lets go to shift, to jerk the laptop closer and up onto his shin so that he can see and be seen.

"I should've come, I should've just up an' got on that plane," Eric says half to himself, thumb twisting to rub under the head of his cock in a maddeningly slow circle as he stares at Jack, lips parted and eyes dark. "You'd've gotten right down on your knees for me, wouldn't you? Put your mouth to me?"

"Yes," Jack says, because of course he would've. And he doesn't have Eric's way with words like this but he manages, "I want that."

Eric's hand moves up, moves past the range of the camera like he's touching the screen and Jack feels foolish for it but he licks his lips and lets them part a little. 

"Would that turn you on? Have you touching yourself while you sucked me off, too horny to wait?"

Jack nods, can't help that he picks up the pace of his fingers, tightens them so that he's moving fast and rough in a way that'd be better with lube but the dryness is its own sort of thrill since the head is protected enough by his foreskin. 

"I bet you'd be good at it," Eric says as he starts up his own slightly slower stroking, running from root to tip in gliding passes. 

"Haven't… not often," Jack admits, because fantasy is fine but he still hopes to convince Eric to let him do it for real, and he doesn't want him to be disappointed. 

Eric tips his head, smiling fondly. "Well, if you know how to do anything, you know how to practice and learn. Bet you'd have me all read up in minutes. Leave me weak-kneed and swearing."

He hopes so. Especially given the way Eric's thighs drop even wider as he rocks his hips up in response to the thought. 

"It'd be so hard to keep still, lord, I'd be so tempted to push, but I wouldn't. Much. I'd be good."

Jack shakes his head. 

"No?" Eric breathes, hips apparently twitching at the thought as he leans up on one of his hands a little more, flexes towards the screen. "You wouldn't mind me pushing a little? What if I put my hands in your hair? " 

Jack bites his lip against a moan as he imagines it, imagines Eric's strong fingers going tight in the strands, holding him where he wants him, guiding him so they move together just right. It spikes through him, a shiver that leaves his skin prickled in its wake as he fucks up into his palm, throat tight.

"Don't come yet," Eric says, and Jack tips his head back on a frustrated breath, panting as he pulls his hand away and leaves his cock jerking in protest at the sudden loss of contact.

"Oh, lordy, Jack, you're so…" Eric's voice falters on a moan and Jack blinks his eyes open, watches as Eric picks up his own pace, fingers spreading and tightening as he goes for it. His skin is picking up more of a flush, his nipples starting to stay beaded tight as his ribs move with deeper breaths. He moans, hips shifting up against his fist and then he's nodding, biting his lip briefly and saying, "With me, sweetheart, let's go."

Jack's hand is on his cock in an instant, matching Eric's pace again, and his body aches for it, so heavy with anticipation that's only been held off, barely stifled. They move together, reading each other's bodies in easy coordination and it feels like being on the ice with him again, racing hot through the cold spray, knowing exactly where the other is without having to check. His orgasm has been welling low and curling in his belly and he makes a sound of concern as it starts to swell fast and full at him now.

"Don't stop," Eric says, interpreting his look correctly.

Jack doesn't stop. He clings to the chair with one hand and jerks the tip of his cock with the other, fast and twisting and staring at the way Eric's doing the same until he can't hold onto it anymore. Till everything comes together and there's a break in the lane, nothing but pure rush to the net. It runs through him, open and wild and he's making a mess of his thighs and his belly but that just makes it all the more real as he gasps through the sensation, so familiar and yet somehow so different from regular masturbation.

Eric's making the most beautiful strangled hum, hips rocking into his fist a little desperately as he stares at Jack, and then his lips break apart and he's got an exultant sound trapped in his throat, just squeaking by at the edges as he goes taut. He spills himself over his belly, his chest on its frozen breath.

Jack's breath is shuddering as he watches, strokes himself through the comedown. He's not breathing particularly hard after such limited real exertion, but his body feels aligned and alive for the first time all day.

Eric sighs through his next breath when his body lets him, head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed and slender throat exposed, adam's apple shifting as he swallows. Jack drinks in the sight of him, the flush over his chest and neck, the glistening fluid catching the glow of the screen, his trim chest shifting with still-quick breaths as he comes down. 

After a moment, he blinks his eyes open and his chin drops, an embarrassed smile touching his cheeks as he tucks himself back into his shorts and then grabs at his discarded shirt. 

"You look so good," Jack says, because he doesn't want Eric to cover up again or to feel embarrassed. He would stay like this all night if he could, just looking at him. 

Eric looks up at him through his lashes, a shy smile touching his lips as he uses the shirt to mop up the come left on his belly.

"You're not so bad yourself," he replies. He smirks a little and adds, "Sure wouldn't complain if you said yes next time Sports Illustrated called and asked you to do a body issue." 

He shifts on the bed, leaning away to toss the shirt off somewhere past the bed. The motion bumps the computer, then apologizes softly as he curls his legs closer and readjusts the screen. He studies Jack right back, and he blinks a little sleepily as he leans his chin on a palm. 

"So."

"So," Jack replies. "Do you need to go? Do you have work or… whatever?"

"Yeah," he says on a yawn that he waves away with a laugh. "I'm opening at the bakery in a few hours but… I'm not that tired. Not really," Eric says, though it's clear he's bordering on sleepy. "I can knead bread in my sleep. I'd rather keep talking to you."

Jack doesn't argue, because he'd much rather keep talking too, even if it is a little irresponsible.

"So. How are you?"

Eric shrugs eloquently. "Feels like I never know how to answer that question anymore. Everything's all… well, could be better, could be worse." He waves his fingers dismissively. "It's all six and one-half dozen."

Jack nods, because he understands that feeling all too well. But he smiles after a moment as he processes Eric's last statement. "Heh. That's funny because you're a baker."

Eric rolls his eyes a little but he smiles back, mouth bunching up in that way that says he's considering chirping Jack but probably won't, will probably just smile fondly or huff in exasperation. It's a familiar look, even if it's something he'd only seen a few times at the end of that year after Eric had gotten more comfortable with Jack. 

Unlike the night before, in the after where they'd curled together in the darkness under the sheets, tonight he can see Eric's leg. It's up close to the camera and he can see a few scattered surface scars that are mostly faded, and then deeper, neater surgical scars which have lingered longer. One of his toes is crooked, foreshortened.

"Is it… does it still hurt?" he asks.

Eric follows his regard a moment, face impassive as he looks at his scars, then he slides his legs up and then back under the sheets gracefully, removing them from view.

"Sometimes. I can't actually feel most of my foot. Whether it was the compound fractures themselves or the emergency surgery to repair them, either way, some of the nerves were severed," he explains, his voice calm but drawling very southern and his eyes skitter away from the screen as he smooths his fingers over the fabric covering them.

Jack swallows, trying to decide whether he should apologize for asking, whether it was too personal. He's not sure because it feels like they're miles past that line at the same time that it feels like they've only just started.

"And you? How's your head?" Eric says, shifting the conversation.

Jack doesn't protest, even though he wants to ask more. To ask about what happened and about why Eric hadn't _told_ him. Why he'd left without a word.

"It's fine," Jack says. "Stitches will come out in a couple days probably. No concussion but they'll probably keep me benched just to be safe. It's early in the season."

Eric makes a soft sound of approval, then silence falls between them since there's not really anything more to say on that subject. They just look at each other, mostly naked, the shared intimacy of the situation still warm and central but fading at the edges now as reality starts to creep back in.

Jack doesn't want it to.

"We're flying back to Providence tomorrow. That's… where I live now. In Providence. Because my team is…"

Eric fixes him with an incredulous look and he clears his throat because right. It would be fair to assume he knew that the Providence Falconers, for whom he has personally seen Jack playing, are, in fact, based in Providence.

"You could come. I'd like it if you would come," Jack says, knowing it's going to come off too eager-sounding, and he does not want to put pressure on this but he has to ask. "I mean, it doesn't have to be tomorrow, it could be another day, I know it's not like you can just drop everything. But it could be tomorrow."

Eric looks away, closes his eyes briefly and then musters a tight smile. He shakes his head a little and says, "Jack, I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why not?" Jack asks. "Is it, do you not like flying? There's other-"

"It's not that." Eric looks at him, face falling somewhere between resigned and longing. "It's… lots of reasons."

Jack stares at him, looks at him looking back at him and then takes a breath and says, "Tell me what they are. Maybe we can find ways around them together."

Eric huffs at him, a flicker of an exasperated smile touching his lips as he shakes his head, then he's leaning back on his elbows, chewing on his lower lip as he considers. He casts his eyes ceiling-wards, then sighs and says, "If I… if I leave here, Jack, there's a good chance I won't be able to come back."

And that's a real problem, more than getting some time off work or managing responsibilities. But. Eric's eyes flick his way, the look on his face something Jack would maybe call wistful. 

"Do you… is Atlanta where you want to be?"

Eric looks at him, eyes tight around the edges. He laughs faintly, bitterly, and then admits, "No."

Jack nods then, because even if Eric doesn't want to _be_ with him, he's got an empty guest room. And a very empty apartment. It's been years since he actively longed for the chaos of the Haus, but the silence is still a little jagged piece of his life he doesn't know how to shift. And Eric, even this quieter, warier version of the man he once knew, would surely fill the space with cinnamon and music. 

"Then… you could stay with me. As long as you want."

Eric's face goes tight as he studies Jack. Something ugly flickers behind his eyes and he closes them, turns his head away and then shakes it off without sharing his turn of thought. It's gone when he looks back at him again, but there's something else standing up in its place that's stubborn and determined. 

"You're not out."

"I… no," Jack says, surprised. He shakes his head as he tries to find the words to explain that it's not so important now as Eric seems to think. Not if it's going to be measured up against his wanting to keep Eric from slipping away again.

"And that's fine, I respect that, of course I do," Eric says before he can speak, palm pressing forward towards the screen. "But me? I'm not going within a hundred miles of the closet ever again."

Jack blinks, nonplussed. "I wouldn't-"

Eric's head shake is sharp. "It would kill me to out you Jack, and I can't go back. How-"

There's a faint noise in the background, a clatter or something indistinct through the little speakers, and Eric sits up sharply, eyes wide and tracking somewhere behind his screen as it's followed by a bang that sounds like a door thumping against a wall.

"I have to go," Eric blurts in a harsh, hushed voice, then the angle of the image swoops and abruptly ends and Jack's left staring at a blank screen.

A half-finished word slips out of Jack's mouth but there's nowhere for it to go.

The silence is deafening as Jack pushes up out of his chair, body tense as he stares at the computer. He reaches for his phone, but stops himself, makes himself drop the phone back on the desk with a clatter and curl his hands closed. He's thousands of miles away now. He can't do anything.

He doesn't make the text or call because as much as he wants to - as desperate as the feeling is, he's pretty sure that calling would only make things worse. 

Worse, because somewhere amidst the dismay and resignation on Eric's face before he'd closed the screen, Jack is certain he saw fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometime that night Jack gets a text from Johnson that just says **so rude, brah. you hurt like, all three of my feelings**


	5. Chapter 5

Eric doesn't text or call that night, even though Jack falls asleep late sometime with his phone in his hand and his laptop open on his bed. His skype icon remains grey, offline. 

Jack waits till they're on the plane home to send a text, just **everything okay?** though he writes and rewrites and hopes it's innocuous enough if…

If.

He doesn't get a message back, so he risks a phone call that night, but it goes straight to voicemail and by then he's wound tight enough that sitting there in his empty condo is making him want to shake out of his skin. Worse, the evening run he takes doesn't clear his mind much and he has to make himself stop when his head starts throbbing so he doesn't risk over-training.

The walk back is too quiet again, the city not entirely asleep but not awake anywhere he looks either. It's not winter yet but it's coming on the midnight edges of the clouds and the crisp blades of the winds that curl around the stagnant shapes of the buildings and shadowed cars as he passes by.

His lungs ache with the transition from cool air to the heat of his building when he gets there, a blast of air over the door that's perhaps meant to be comforting but really isn't. The elevator echoes his coughs back at him.

His phone in his hand is unchanged when he lights up the screen at the top of the elevator ride.

The condo is quiet as ever as he lets himself in, and normally it's a balm in a busy city. A place of refuge for him, even if it's just a little too much 'interior designer' and less a home than it maybe should be by now, since it looks the same as it did five years ago. Tonight, the silence feels accusatory. Hollow. 

It makes him want to get right back on a plane and head south. Jack closes his eyes and leans his hands against the kitchen island counter where the laptop is sitting, leans his head down and just hangs from his frame, giving into gravity for just a few moments.

Of course, he knows he's overreacting. That he doesn't know anything, that Eric doesn't want him to know anything because it's none of his business. He knows that he needs to stick to routine. To calm down, get a shower and a smoothie and go to bed. 

He's not allowed to wallow. He knows better than to go down that path, so he makes himself get up and go get that bland protein shake. Makes himself shower and catch up on the NHL highlights till the hours left to his definite bedtime are dwindling. 

Still, he wanders into the kitchen again and wakes up his screen, checks to make sure he hasn't missed anything there or on his phone, though he'd left both with their volume up loud enough he probably would've heard them. Eric's little icon is grey. Still grey, and showing as not having come online since the night before. 

Shitty's icon is green, though, and Jack stares at it. He could call him. He maybe _should_ call him. Even though it's late, Shitty would answer. But part of him still doesn't know how to do it. How to pry open the knot in his chest and lay it all out.

He clicks the button anyway.

Even though it's late Shitty answers fairly quickly, looking tired around the eyes but very much himself, shirtless and surrounded by piles of legal papers on his bed. His flow isn't back to pre-harvard levels of glory, but it's beginning to ease past the bounds of standard professional men's haircuts now that he's gotten his feet under him a bit at his job.

"Jack, my man," Shitty says with a grin, but it fades a little as he looks Jack over. "Whoa. Looks like you've got some heavy you've been carrying around. Care to unload some?"

Jack sinks onto the barstool with a sigh and leans on his elbows, feeling a rush of relief at his presence, however virtual. It's been longer than he'd realized since he'd properly skyped him or seen him face to face.

"I don't even know where to start," Jack says into his hands, but sits back and gives himself a little shake. 

"Literally anywhere, brah. We'll find our way there eventually," Shitty assures him, voice easy and calm and such an unshakeable point of strength amidst the chaos of Jack's thoughts.

Jack opens his mouth and tries to tell him something, anything, but it all piles up into a jam, clogging his throat with dryness. He's been avoiding thinking about telling Shitty about all of this so hard it almost seems strange that Shitty doesn't know everything that's happened. There was a time when he never had to tell him thing, he just knew. He would've been part of it and Jack wouldn't have to hold all of it in his hands alone.

"So given recent context, I'm going to take a wild guess and say this has something to do with Bitty?"

Jack sighs heavily and then nods, tucking his fingers under the cuff of his sweatshirt because it's late enough to be cool now in his condo, especially after taking his run too hard.

"So your text said you found him, then lost him again," Shitty says, and Jack nods again.

Shitty waits, and Jack breathes. Thinks back to that night that seems a lot longer than just two nights ago now.

"I… I went looking but he left the stands before I got there. I think seeing me get hit…"

"Not fun," Shitty agrees, his frown mild and sympathetic. "That was never his favorite thing about hockey."

Jack is struck by a memory of Bitty's shoulders around his ears, his knees buckling under him as he anticipated a check that never came. The grim determination on his pale face as he'd glared up at Jack, and then gotten up again. And again. And again.

"Okay, so, what happened next?" Shitty prompts gently, dragging Jack back from where his eyes have gone distant through the big glass windows that make up the far wall of his kitchen.

"Then I found him outside, I don't know how. Luck, or maybe he was waiting? And… he came to my hotel with me. We talked a little but… things got… it was…"

Shitty nods, his focus on Jack, his attention somehow calming rather than demanding. He knows Shitty won't push him if he isn't ready to talk, and that makes it easier to be ready. Even though Jack has to look away from the screen he is able to say, "We had sex."

Shitty is utterly silent, and when Jack chances a look at him, his expression is complicated. 

Jack looks away again, because he doesn't regret it, even if it had been impulsive. But looking back on it he can see how it could look.

"He left sometime in the night. I hadn't meant for him to. I'd meant for him to stay and then we could talk or he could… anything. But he left. And he didn't leave his number and he wouldn't tell me where he lived when I tried to ask and the team was flying to Dallas so I - I-"

"Hey, no, of course," Shitty interrupts, making Jack realize he's gotten more upset-sounding. Defensive. "Jack, you did the best you could with what the situation allowed. He chose to be there and chose to leave when he needed to. Nobody screwed up."

Jack nods, makes himself relax his shoulders and sit back, not guarding himself over this again. Shitty, of all people, isn't going to expect him to have navigated this like some interpersonal scion.

"You boys have a good time?" Shitty says eventually, smiling gently at him when Jack looks up in surprise.

"Well? Come on, not often I get to hassle you for deets, brah," Shitty teases, tone deliberately light.

Jack can't help but smile a little in response, because he's not wrong. And yeah, it had been good. Intense, but then, that's Jack's modus operandi. Eric's too, albeit in a different way. He scrapes his fingers against the damp hair curling at the nape of his neck and says, "Uh, yeah. He's really… good at it. And last night we did, uh, skype, and…"

Shitty gasps, face turning bright and delighted. 

"Jack my boy, did you have _skype sex_? My baby's growing up so fast," he says theatrically, fluttering a hand at his throat, making Jack laugh a little, embarrassment fading. "I thought you lost track of him though?"

"He changed his mind and texted me," he explains. "I tried to get him a ticket to Dallas to come with me but that was… he couldn't make it. Or he didn't want to. I'm not sure which it was, exactly. But I told him it didn't matter, that I knew it was short notice and… I told him I still wanted to see him. That he could come to providence, or anywhere. And he said there were all these reasons why he couldn't, but he seemed like he _wanted_ to and…"

Shitty's expression looks pensive again, and Jack swallows. Says, "What?"

"I guess… maybe I'm just curious now as to whether you had feelings for him, back at Samwell, and I just didn't realize."

Jack swipes his hand at a drop of shower water that's trickled down from his hair onto his neck as he considers his words. Eventually he says, "It was a long time ago. And back then, feelings like those were… inconvenient. I don't know what I might've felt if things had been different."

Shitty smiles at him a little sadly, but more with fondness and warmth than anything else as he leans his chin on his hand. "Yeah. So what about now? We haven't really talked much about relationships or any of that stuff lately. You've really been pretty firm on avoiding that all since you came into the NHL. Any changes?" 

"I've been thinking about it," he admits.

The questions aren't invasive or pushy; he knows Shitty's never put expectations on him about those things, about coming out or dating or any of it. In fact, he has always explicitly defended Jack's right to do and think whatever he wants to about his own life. 

Jack purses his lips and gives it due consideration.

"I'm… I don't think I regret my choices but… I think I've been more… lonely, than I realized," he says, frowning over the thought. It feels wrong to say when he has such a great team, when he has family and friends who love him. But he knows there's a difference there, a difference that has been becoming more apparent lately.

"And you connected with Eric."

"Yeah," Jack says, sighing, because it sounds so much simpler when Shitty says it like that. All the big, inexplicable things he's feeling about this whole… thing.

Shitty's quiet a moment, but then he says, "So, you seem pretty upset still."

Jack winces, because yeah. Yeah, it doesn't really matter if he's fucking _lonely_ because- "he isn't answering my texts or skype or anything. I don't know what to do."

"Jack," Shitty says, gently but firmly. "Maybe he needs some space. I can't imagine this is easy for him. Seeing you again. Getting reminded of everything that happened."

Jack shakes his head, frustrated at himself for assuming Shitty would get what he means. "No, I mean, last night we were talking and then I think he heard someone come into his place because he looked scared and hung up so fast…"

Shitty's face tightens.

"So you think he's already with someone else?" he says softly, sadly. "That he was… unfaithful to them with you?"

And Jack feels lightheaded, because… he hadn't. Even though it seems kindof obvious, now that Shitty's said it. He'd imagined a lot of increasingly frightening and possibly absurd scenarios, but he hadn't really imagined that Eric had been afraid of getting caught _cheating_. It doesn't seem right, doesn't seem possible for infidelity and Eric to be in the same thought.

But then, seven years is a long time, and put in that perspective… Eric sneaking out rather than staying the night, how hesitant and vague he'd been about explaining his reasons turning Jack's invitations down… how conflicted he'd seemed…

Jack swallows awkwardly against the knot in his throat, staring a hole in the stone under his fingertips.

"Yeah. You're right. I should give him space. It's late. I need to get to bed. I have practice…" he says, knowing his voice is wooden and Shitty's frowning at him in concern. 

But Shitty knows him well enough to know Jack absolutely will just cut him off if pushed, so he sighs and says, "Yeah. You _should_ get some rest. Try not to feel responsible for shit you can't control, okay buddy? I love you, man."

"Yeah," Jack says, and makes himself smile at his best friend. "Yeah, love you too. Good night."

The screen goes blank and his smile fades.

He does go to sleep, because he has to, because he's trained himself to, and because at least then he _can't_ think anymore.

 

-o0o-

 

"Alright Jack, how about your mood, your emotions. Any extra sadness or frustration?" 

Jack blinks at the wall, glad that Dr. Hines is busy watching his hands as he takes the sutures out of Jack's scalp and not looking at his face as he asks the question.

"Not really," he says after hesitating just a fraction too long. 

Sleep had taken the edge off his emotions, the worry and discomfiting restlessness he'd felt last night, but in its place is a dull knot. He doesn't regret that he found Eric, that he's had his eyes opened to what he'd missed seven years ago, but whatever pleasant remnants of hope and anticipation he'd felt in Eric's company have abandoned him completely. He's been left with a bleak mixture of negative emotions that wander mostly between worry and guilt as his thoughts drift back and forth between possible explanations for the way everything had played out.

Dr. Hines sits back though, dropping the tweezers into the little bin sitting by Jack's hip on the exam table.

"No mood swings? Short temper?" he asks, this time looking at Jack's face as he snaps off his gloves.

Jack shakes his head firmly, but then it's easier to say no to those questions and not have it feel like a lie. The sadness and frustration isn't a lie either, actually, because he has perfectly valid reasons for feeling what he's been feeling. He knows it's not at all about the way his head hit the gatepost in Atlanta and everything to do with what'd happened after.

The doctor squints at him a little, but then smiles and gets up, going over to the computer workstation to type in Jack's answers to the standard concussion battery they both know too well. They also both know he hasn't pinged even close to the line even with his hesitation over his emotional state.

"Well, you know what things to keep an eye on, so you do that, alright?" 

Jack nods solemnly, getting down from the table.

"I'm good to skate, yes?" he says, though it's mostly a formality.

"Yep. You know the drill though, no contact for another day."

Jack purses his lips, because he _is_ a hockey player and there's very little he likes less than getting on ice but have to tone it down and go through the motions, but he knows better than to push back on these limits. It only takes one bad hit to the head to take everything from "a couple bad knocks" to "career-ending concussive brain injury".

"Thanks, Doc," he says and makes his way out at the absent dismissive wave he gets in return.

He'd come to the practice arena early to get this taken care of, but it hadn't taken long and now he's early still for practice. The arena's never truly quiet during the day, too many different things going on at any given time, but it's still more empty than feels comfortable. His sneakers squeak on the floors that have been mopped too recently to have had enough foot-traffic to soften their polish, and there's no music on at all in the cardio room when he goes to sit on a bike and do an early warm-up.

Normally he'd appreciate the quiet, appreciate a little time where he doesn't have to be 'on' to anyone. Today it leaves him alone with his thoughts, and since his mind churns in slow, unsatisfying circles with nowhere to go, he can't help but wish he had something to distract him. 

Thankfully, he's not the only one who haunts the rink perhaps more than he should. It isn't all that long before Mixy and Porridge show up, arguing good-naturedly about the NHL 21 game - perhaps about whether or not they'll make the cut? He's not sure, he knows he's been in it for years but he doesn't know how it works beyond what PR tells him because he can't stand to watch the avatar of himself get skated around on the screen like a puppet. But they greet him with happy grins and fold him into their argument without seeming to expect him to do more than grunt in the appropriate places.

Getting onto the ice is better, because at least there he's able to ground himself in the cold crisp air, the scrape of blades beneath his feet, the comfortable way his muscles settle into the push and glide as they warm up the rink. 

It doesn't last. Forth frowns when he sees Jack, eyes checking the no-contact jersey before he re-iterates the obvious to the team that Jack is to be bubble-wrapped. Worse, he keeps bumping him off the drill rows too, even for anything halfway to intense, and seems to have nothing to do with risking his head and more like treating him like he's entirely too fragile. Rationally, he knows Forth's days in the Pens organization make him more careful than most on this topic, but it needles him every time he's pulled back, adds bit by bit to his already high frustration levels till he feels ready to snap.

Jack argues, quietly, but he argues. He needs to be on the ice, he's fine, he should be with the team, leading with his best efforts. Only Bammy's snow-shower and elbow in his ribs to go with his mutter of, "Jack, just rest your fucking head," finally shuts him up and gets him skating quietly through the lighter drills and eventually sitting his ass down on the bench. He tries to concentrate on evaluating the work of his team, but they're doing fine and it's not enough to distract him from how he's feeling, so he puts on his best stoic captain face and waits. 

It's early in the season, and it's a strict team policy not to comment on injury, so the press don't bother to show up except for the bare minimum of sports reporters. Even then they only come to get a look at practice and make a couple observations on their own merits, not bothering PR to get into the locker rooms for meaningless canned interview snippets. Jack's pathetically grateful, because he's in no shape to present himself well.

The mood is fairly light around the locker room when he gets out of the shower. Bammy leans into Witsy's stall to show off pictures from his little girl's latest hockey game. On his other side, Dima is teaching the rookies more filthy things to say in Russian so they can be rude to certain upcoming opponents. Kumitz looks like he's considering intervening in the latter, but when Jack glances at him, he makes a face that implies if they want to get their faces punched in it's up to them. 

Mostly, nobody bothers Jack, either through an intentional avoidance or just by him not being that interesting as he makes his methodical way through cleaning up his gear when there are other entertaining things going on. 

The rest of the guys slip out one by one to go home, and soon Jack's back to where he was that morning. He's got nowhere to be. Just a silent apartment to go with a silent phone burning a hole in his pocket with its uselessness. 

He dawdles. Texts a health update to his parents. Fusses over trimming up a couple fresh sticks in the equipment room. Gets cornered by the assistant Equipment Manager Kylie who comes after him with a whole stack of new helmet options and a determined expression on her face. Ferrets out when the coaches are doing their game tape and planning session for tomorrow's game and gets himself invited. 

It's none of it unusual for him, exactly. As captain, he's always felt it's his responsibility to be the most present, to support his coaches and work to the bridge between them and his team. To make himself integral to every part of the process.

It just… also passes the time. He tries not to think too hard about the way that probably shouldn't feel like a good thing for a guy looking at what's probably the latter half of the years he can reasonably expect at the top of the NHL.

The game they have at home the next evening is against the Predators and Jack barely even protests when Rheems looks him square in the eye and says "I'm not playing you. Your head isn't going anywhere near those fuckers," because he's right. The number of bad boarding and even charging calls Nashville's taken in recent history and the likelihood that the Falcs will be beating them hard enough to make them angry are both far too high to risk a worsened injury, especially this far out from playoffs.

He spends the game in the team's box, surrounded by the other players' friends and families and Jewels who's in a walking cast now but still just as pissy about not playing for another month as Jack is about not being down there tonight. They share an understanding grimace, and an equally understanding silence away from the other more cheerful occupants of the box as they watch their team struggle to surpass the aggressive defense in front of them.

Jack knows he's being far too petulant for someone who only has to miss a few games, but then, the way his eyes keep drifting over to the happy families around him probably explains the rest.

He tells himself that it's to be expected, that regardless of how things have turned out, seeing Bitty, being intimate with someone - anyone - again, is going to set off emotions he's kept intentionally dormant. 

It doesn't really make it any easier. But it's bearable. And maybe it's past due. Maybe a lot of things are.

They don't win. It's not a blowout or anything - the Preds just squeak one past Dima in the last minute of the third and there's not enough time to answer back, but Jack and Jewels don't really look at each other. They're both thinking the same things, even though they know better.

He sleeps, because he's trained himself to do that well, but he doesn't feel rested when he wakes in the morning, greeted by nothing but silence.

The next game is even worse, still cleared but scratched and still at home against the Red Wings. The back-to-back games had meant no practice, and the itch under his skin hasn't gotten the relief being on the ice brings, let alone the freeing exertion of hard-fought play. 

They lose by a very solid two, and when Jack gets down to the locker room after, he doesn't even have to say anything before Rheems is saying, "You're right. Would've been better with you out there. But it's done and at least you're rested for Vegas, so go cheer up the kids and shake Dima out of his…" a hand wiggle for the universal "goalie thing."

And Jack's never thought of himself as being the one to cheer up anyone, but after three years working with the guy he does know how to handle Dima; namely with terrible attempts at Russian jokes and Quebecois insults that make Quinn laugh in French disdain until Dima shakes off his malaise enough to demand translations, resulting in the both of them insulting Jack's pronunciation in two languages before they move on to showers. 

He knows how to throw a ball of sock tape at Bammy when he catches him staring through the wall for too long running over the mistakes and the loss he loads onto his own head whenever he's the A on the ice without his C.

He knows how to gather the young guys with a gesture, and Dings and Porridge and Mixy sit there with intent, determined expressions as he briefly gives his observations on their strengths and weaknesses in the game and tells them what he thinks they've already improved on. When he's done they've lost some of the tightness around their eyes.

He knows how to do this, how to do his job and come steadily back from injury, he does. It's old hat to him now, worn smooth and… well, not _comfortable_ but known.

Only, it doesn't change the fact that he's now all too aware there's no one in his cold apartment to talk _him_ out of his head. That even though he knows how to shake up sulking goalies, knows how to steady rookies and has his own customary cooldowns and routines, he can't shake the feeling that the pieces don't quite fit where they'd been before.

He exercises, eats, and sleeps, because he's trained himself to.

 

-o0o-

 

Vegas. It's… not his favorite. For a number of reasons. Parse himself doesn't number among those reasons, not anymore, but playing against him will always be…

The rest of the team gives him something of a wide berth on the flight, leaving him alone to his row in the back of the plane. They often do on the way to Vegas anyway, and maybe most times he'd appreciate the thought, but today it makes him feel out of place again. Sitting alone this time means someone probably had to actively warn Mixy not to sit with him since it's the kid's first time playing the Aces and he wouldn't have known. Like maybe they know he's too tightly-wound to be a good captain just now. 

Sometimes, not often, he longs for the early days in the NHL, when he'd been a rookie, just another guy fighting to prove he was worth more than a cup of coffee in the show. Back when Tater had been there to take him under his wing, make sure he never felt excluded for all his anxiety, till he'd grown comfortable enough with the team to settle. Now, even on a good day his captaincy can set him apart and he's proud to be captain, wouldn't give it up, but sometimes…

Lately, he feels remarkably alone.

It's not the longest flight, but it's not the fastest either. Landing isn't that much of a boon either. Of all the places a stranger to the city would hypothetically expect to find a shitty airport, Las Vegas is not high on the list, but it's a miserable place nonetheless. It always feels too crowded, always reeks of despair even in the side tunnels VIPs get directed through.

Worse still, for some unknown reason, their bus is late and they're stuck milling about in some sweaty waiting area near the baggage claim under so much concrete nobody is getting cell service. It doesn't help his already dim mood in general, but the brightly-lit ad poster on the wall opposite Jack's seat makes him want to punch something for the feeling of mockery it leaves him.

It's an ad for one of the many wedding-chapel places in town, nothing special about it except for the happy couple featured - costumed, one laughing and the other leaning in for a kiss - is composed of two men. 

Just like that. Like it's that easy.

" _The fuck is he wearing?_ " Quinn muses from beside him, and when Jack glances over at him, he finds his winger's eyes fixed on the same poster.

Jack shrugs rather than delve into his oddly vast knowledge of era-specific costumes, even though Quinn's familiar enough with his favor for the history channel that it wouldn't be a surprise to him that Jack knows the answer.

" _You ever think about it?_ " Quinn asks after a moment, gesturing with his chin ever so slightly at Jack and the poster.

He's not sure whether Quinn means dating, or coming out, or marriage in particular. Whether he's thinking about building families and having kids or just someone to come home to. It doesn't really matter, because Jack knows himself well enough to know any one of them would probably lead to all of them in relatively fast succession. 

Jack swallows, shrugs and runs his fingers through his hair. " _You?_ " he replies, taking the coward's way out for the moment.

Quinn's shrug is appropriately gallic, his smile small and wry. " _Sometimes. I still miss Angelique, so…_ "

Jack presses his elbow against Quinn's for that. For the fact that he's a widower, seven years past now, and for the fact that Jack hadn't been there then. Hadn't reached out when he'd seen the news - it's not like he could've missed it, but he hadn't felt like he'd have been any use, just some estranged friend from back in juniors. 

" _It is what it is. But sometimes. I suppose I always thought by the second cup…_ "

Jack nods, looking at the happy poster again, sighing slowly. He hasn't really thought about it that explicitly, but this past summer, winning it all again… even though he'd never have admitted it in a million years, he'd felt something missing. Maybe it's this.

" _What sad bachelors are we, we don't even date,_ " Quinn teases, then sighs too, adding, " _And here I complain when I at least have the convenience of liking women._ " He tilts his head, eyeing the poster again and then Jack in a way that's perhaps… encouraging, curious as he adds quietly, " _But… times do change_."

He can't help but think back to his conversation with Shitty, with the gently-broached question of whether, perhaps, he's ready for that. 

" _I think, if I had someone… there's someone I might_ " he begins, and he can feel Quinn's attention deepen. But he doesn't know quite how to continue.

" _Someone in At-_ "

"Gross, get it off of me," Suttsy's yelping, startling most of them in the vicinity as Bammy cackles and tugs off Suttsy's face the jelly-stretchy toy that's probably been won from one of the stupid airport vending or slot machines - though when had he had time?

The group erupts into a cascade of chirping and then yelling when Suttsy steals the jelly toy to slap back at Bammy but misses, smacking it into Dima's cheek as Bammy ducks for his bag to get - yeah, he has more than one. Of course he does. And Dima's stealing one and…

Things go downhill from there and Jack sighs as he eventually ends up with half a lapful of Russian goalie who's saying very rude things about Suttsy's… grandmother? If his partial knowledge of Russian trash-talk from Tater's days isn't failing him.

"What's that Dimmer? Your girlfriend wants my number? Don't worry, I'll keep her nice and warm when Jewelie gets back and we can dump your ass back in the A."

Jack grimaces and says, "Hey, let's leave sigs out of this, eh?" 

When Dima opens his mouth to let out what is probably going to be an absolutely filthy invective Jack pushes Dima just enough to dump him on the floor. 

"And grandmothers."

It earns him such a look of betrayal that Quinn's snickers break into outright laughter beside him as Suttsy yelps, "hey _what_ about grams?"

Fortunately for everyone in the vicinity, before that particular can of worms gets opened Hannity arrives with the announcement that their ride is ready. Shenanigans aside, the promise of getting out of these awful plastic chairs and into the air conditioned and cushioned ride to the arena distracts everyone sufficiently for the moment.

He casts one last glance at the poster as they file out into the dull desert air; he's really not sure how it makes him feel at all. The gleaming wedding band in the picture makes the knot of guilt in his belly heavier. 

Bammy carefully drags Dima with him to the back of the line as their goalie waves his phone around, trying to get signal and protesting Suttsy's comments - though whether he's more mad about the implications about his girlfriend or the jab at him getting sent down is anyone's guess. His face lights up, though, when he gets a signal and gets through to his girlfriend to whom he starts speaking in rapid-fire Russian. 

They load up to the sound of everyone's phones starting to chirp and buzz with delayed social media and other notifications, some coming more quickly than others as they compete for signal. 

He isn't expecting any himself, but as the bus pulls away from the airport, Jack's phone chimes with a new notification of its own. He tries not to let his emotions get the better of him as he unlocks it, but it's a voicemail, and when he taps it, it's from an unknown number. It's not like he's never gotten wrong numbers or telemarketers on this number, but the timing… 

He can't tap the message fast enough.

"Hi Jack," Eric's voice says. 

He sounds - he sounds fine. Relief is a bone-deep rush through his whole body as he hunkers down against the window to try and shield his ear from the noise on the bus.

"Dang, I guess I missed you." 

Eric falters then, though, clears his throat and says, "No, sorry, that wasn't honest, and I don't mean to be dishonest with you. I waited to call till I knew via the Falcs' twitter that you'd be on the plane."

"I'm sorry our chat ended so weird the other night, but it was probably for the best. You see, I just… it's hard, Jack, because when I'm talking to you I lose all sense and I start to think maybe this could… I could… but Jack, I can't. You're doing so _well_ , and I can't risk-"

Jack closes his eyes, leans his forehead against his fist as Eric pauses in the message, then continues on with forced cheer.

"So. Anywho, I'm sorry about the strange number. I'm using a public phone because my… I broke my phone. And, ah, and my laptop too. So. You know. No skype for a while either."

He falters again, and Jack knows there's a lie in there, but isn't sure which part of it isn't the truth. If any of it is true at all. 

"Well. That's what I wanted to tell you. So. I've obviously still got your number so when I get a new phone maybe I'll… Well. Good - good luck tonight. Good luck with everything, Jack. You… you take care of yourself now, y'hear?"

And that definitely sounds like goodbye. The kind that lasts longer than the click at the end of the message.

" _Sacrement. Criss de câlisse_ ," Jack mumbles as he presses the repeat button and listens to the message all over again. It doesn't hurt any less the second time through, doesn't stop being nothing he wants except the proof that Eric's fine.

It takes him out of that awful limbo, but he's not sure it isn't worse. Being rejected. Being told he's not worth the risk. He can imagine Shitty disagreeing with him for thinking that, and he knows it's unfair to think that's what Eric meant, but it's also how it feels right now. 

It only takes a moment of self-pity, though, before he feels ashamed for thinking he could ever expect Eric to think him worth that risk. He knows he has worth, it's not really that, but the risk… It is a real risk, from whatever angle, whatever side, always, in some form or another. A danger that cost Eric the ice - the ability to _skate_. 

It'd been selfish to even ask.

"…you take care of yourself now, y'hear?" Bitty's tinny voice tells him again.

"You too," he tells the silence, and then he turns off his phone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. This seems like an eerily appropriate week to finish up this chapter. I had the first half of this written like two months ago and Ngozi obv has her storylines plotted out even further in advance, but apparently the universe has decided it's Falcs vs. Aces this week. 
> 
> My translations are a product of my beginner-level language learning and some google translate, plus the help of some of you, but if you are a native speaker who has suggestions, please feel free to let me know, I am and have always been absolutely hopeless with French but I'm starting to learn Russian and either way I love to learn.

"It's honestly starting to get embarrassing, Zimms, your incessant pining," Kent teases, pulling a mockingly pitying face as he tips his head towards Quinn. "Still playing with the less-talented, less-good-looking French knockoff version of me, huh?"

" _Suce ma bite, Parson_ " Quinn calls lovingly from behind the official, whose face is pinched as he settles between Jack and Kent on the dot. Though they tend to get that look around him and Kent even without the chirping.

" _Quand tu veux, chéri_ ," Kent replies in his stupid lazy-accented French, though his eyes are on the puck as he slides into position across from Jack.

Jack ignores them and just dives into the tangle of black and white clad limbs and takes the puck when it drops. He snaps it over to Mixy who actually has his head in the fucking game even if he is looking a little wild around the edges at being across the red line from Kent Parson for the first time in his career.

Jack's shoulder knocks Kent's as he shoves past, but Kent's not a Stanley Cup winning captain for nothing. He's fast on the turn and leaping into action light and focused and shouting at his guys to look alive as Mixy skates hard up the left and gets in position to snap it back to Jack as Quinn arcs cross-ice to screen for the potential rebound, calling out his read of the ice.

Mixy skates right through Hamilton and Kent's riding hard on Jack's hip, keeping his stick just centimeters from tripping them both. The pass comes, though, and Jack reads his linemate just a fraction of a second faster than Kent and cuts in front of him to wrist it at the goal.

It's a good shot but gets slapped down by Reubens, gets flicked away and nudged further by Hamilton again as Quinn cuts off the pass and Jack and Parse both slingshot around behind the goal to keep their momentum to go chasing after it.

Quinn slips under Kovach, snaps it back in along the rim and Jack checks Kent hard into the boards as they both dive for it, getting himself into position to wheel it back up to Mixy. 

Mixy gets it, snaps a short shot on goal in the chaos but the Aces are there in force now and it gets deflected in a scrum that gets the whistle called on something Jack doesn't see as he pushes off - Reubens gloving it up, he realizes when he glances back. 

Kent cracks his stick against Jack's skate, eloquent eyebrows arching at him as he peels off and arcs away as everyone glides about to go set up for the face-off. Jack goes straight to the dot, ignoring the look, ignoring anything but the game. 

Parse is a little slower to get there, not enough for delay of game but a tug back, a way of trying to wrest the momentum back from Jack's teeth.

"So it's gonna be like that tonight, is it?" Parse drawls as he crouches down across from Jack at the circle.

Jack looks at him, at his sharp features and his dangerous eyes, and his mouth held just shy of his normal smirk. He gets under Jack's skin so easily. He always will. But he takes as good as he gives. Lets him push, pushes back, pushes for more. Doesn't break or run, never gives up the ghost. Not ever.

Whatever he sees in Jack's eyes has his face drawing in to a point of perfect focus as his stick goes to the ice, their eyes held as the black disk falls between them.

The rest of the game is a blur. It's fast and rough and he slams Kent into the boards and Kent slams him back. He skates hard, but Kent is faster, he's always faster, and Jack pushes and pushes till he's gasping with it. Till they both are. Their coaches keep both of them cycling fast through the shifts, not daring to let one of them on the ice without the other and Kent's eyes just get wilder and sharper and his grin more feral with every turn. Quinn stays wide and watches him, at the ready for him, follows his lead. Mixy stays close on his left wing, his shadow, keeping the other Aces off him and Kent.

This game means minute-long stretches of desperate skating till he's gasping for air, then waiting on the edge of the bench to be released anew, a pattern of single-minded focus that frees him from his thoughts. He throws himself into it wholeheartedly. There are two full teams there with them, but there might as well not be the way he's playing - the way Kent's playing too. 

There are no sophisticated plays being run, no communication beyond what’s reflexive and gets him the puck. They both get shots in seemingly by the dozen, net two goals apiece on graceless shots too hard and too fast for even the best goalies to stop. The crowd is a non-stop mass of screaming. Defenders on both sides start taking dirtier, harder hits.

Sometime late in the game he and Kent crash into the boards together chasing the puck, tripping themselves down into a heavy crash of bodies, Kent landing on Jack's back, knee between his thighs. Kent gasps a chuckle, levers himself up off Jack's ass. They wrestle back upright, shoving and sticking for the puck crowded in the corner. Jack's helmet comes loose and Kent loses a glove before it snaps free, gets passed long back up the rink, but they're too tangled up to go after it immediately. His stick is still wrapped around Kent's hips and their legs tangled as Kent tries to pull back.

" _Tabarnac_ ," Jack spits as his helmet finally tips off his shoulder and bounces on the ice, his skate catching on the strap and undercutting his footing.

Kent hooks his hand in Jack's collar, hauls them together to steady him and laughs again, high and sharp and wild. His eyes are wild and bright too as he leans in, lips curling wide.

"Jesus, Jack, if you needed a good fuck all you had to do was _ask_."

It's meant in teasing more than an actual suggestion - though it's probably also that if he wanted it to be, it's happened enough over the years. He knows it's meant as a way to prod, which for Parse means a way to check in, but it's also bullshit. It's not a joke, and it's _not_ that simple and Jack snarls at him, shoves him back hard enough to have him wobbling in surprise, helmet bouncing lightly off the glass. 

He opens his mouth to say something but then immediately one of the Aces' D-men is looming in protective fury, pawing at Jack's jersey and winding up a fist. He's growling out threats, Mixy coming sliding in from the other direction with his jaw set and his gloves off even though he's outmatched and whistles are blowing and fans are pounding on the glass screaming as both teams are crowding close like it's about to boil over into a full bench brawl.

But Jack's not fighting and Kent gets an arm across his guy's chest, tells him it's all good and in moments the officials have them sliding apart before it really becomes anything. Kent glances back at Jack, though, face speculative before he skates off to change up off the ice like he's realized that maybe they haven't been playing the same game tonight after all.

Jack takes a second to recover his gear, Mixy still in his shadow as he skates back to the bench and suddenly he feels exhausted, the adrenaline fading and the wildness suddenly seeming small and foolish. Coach Rheems is frowning at him as he climbs the gate and Porridge is hopping down to take his place, looking determined.

Jack grabs his jersey, tells him, "Calm. Focused. Eyes open."

Porridge nods sharply, the fierce determination shifting towards shrewdness as he skates out, eyes taking in the players dropping onto the ice, assessing. Not picking up the reckless, stupid charge Jack had been leading till now.

It wins them the game.

Porridge turns the momentum on its head. He sticks to planned and practiced plays that rely on timing, uses his awareness of the rink and the pumped-up aggressiveness of the Aces' players against them. 

Within two minutes he gets them up the center on what reads like a power-drive, like all of Jack's power drives, but instead he slows up early so that the Aces skate too hard, overshoot and accidentally clear the goal going forward after the puck so that when Witsy drops it short back to Sutteridge who passes Porridge the puck, he snaps it up over Reubens's inside shoulder in the widening gap.

It's a beautiful goal, and Jack watches it unfold in front of him but it feels far away, numbed over by the roar of the crowd and the repetitive thumping of the music. His breath is loud in his ears even once he's caught it, and he grips his stick till his fingers start to tingle.

Belatedly, he realizes that he's on the edge of a panic attack. 

Not bad. Just… twisted up. And recognizing it is almost all he needs to be able to push it back down, to shake off the tension that's spiraled tight through his body. He hangs his head down, stretches his shoulders and makes himself release the tension and when he looks up again a minute later, things are a little less grey around the edges.

In the final minutes they put their most unflappable guys on the ice and play a careful passing game of keepaway and though they barely make much progress into the attack zone, their defense does good work chopping up play. The Aces realize what's happening and pull their goalie to get an extra forward but it's just a little too late for it to matter. They end regulation 3-2 and Jack is on autopilot as he skates out to congratulate the team and pat Dima's head as the Aces clear off behind them.

Kent looks at him from across the ice, his eyes dark and pensive, but he doesn't bridge the gap.

The crowd is only a fraction gone, the game having been tied till late in the third, though just the die-hard fans are still sitting out in the arena rather than starting filing out. They wait for the post-game commentators and the local contest winner announcements and to stretch their hands down near the tunnel to try and get a fist-bump from lingering players.

Jack isn't surprised he gets the wave from the assistant. He hangs back, still feeling worn through and a little numb. It's all a blur now, so many iterations of the same people, the same stadiums, the same gimmicks. 

When they call his name booming loud overhead, he does his duty as first star skating out into the center ice for a circle, lifting his stick in salute, then looping back to the bench like he's done dozens and maybe hundreds of times before. 

"Aaaaaand let's hear it for Ota Blažek, our second star of the game with the winning goal tonight!" the announcer calls.

Jack bumps his glove against Porridge's shoulder as he passes him and the guy lights up at him in that brief moment before skating out to take his turn around the ice. Jack knows he should've been more supportive, more exuberant over Porridge's game-winner, over his obvious growth as a player, but he's got nothing left. He'll have to make it up to him later. 

Kenny's frowning at him as he ducks down the tunnel to head for the dressing room, but he's about to get called for third star so he doesn't say anything.

Normally it'd be pretty much done there, he'd get to totter back to the visitor's locker room and shower in peace and then answer a handful of pat questions about an unimportant midseason game, but it's Vegas, so as he heads towards the locker rooms, there're cameras and showgirls waiting at the doors and the whole group of them follows him into the room with the assistants.

Most of the others are already in the showers or getting dressed, laughing and roughhousing a little, spirits high for an evening out after an exciting win. Jack goes for his phone, even though he knows better when his emotional resources are this low, but he does it anyway, and it's unsurprisingly painful when there's nothing. 

Some of the reporters disperse into the room - most of the good people from NBC and ESPN and SN are experienced enough to know better than to swarm Jack or any of the other players who haven't even gotten to take their skates off yet. It's just a midseason game, even if it's a pseudo-rivalry and the defending champs are in Vegas, there's no need to push or harass and it's a great chance to talk to supporting players. Unfortunately the other reporters don't seem to know that.

Jack ditches his helmet and gloves on the shelf, but most of them cluster in around him as the producers arrange showgirls for their shots. He just wants a shower, but as captain and face of the franchise as well as high scorer for the night this is part of his job too, so he pries off his skates and sits on the bench, swiping sweaty hair back from his forehead as a showgirl sparkles her way down next to him. Someone with the flash still on despite the already-excessive lighting blinds them all momentarily and he makes sure to plaster his media smile on his face instead of glaring.

"So, Jack, looked like you were skating pretty hard out there tonight. You must've really wanted to win that star of the game!" one man jokes with a lecherous wink for Jack as the showgirl flashes her teeth again and drapes herself on his shoulder. It's uncomfortable all around; a stranger touching him, his selfish skating being praised ignorantly but he can't correct it without making it worse.

"I just wanted to do my best for my team," Jack says, making himself smile and say, "But it's always an honor being chosen as a star of the game."

The interviewer starts to say something, but Porridge come into the room with a cheer. In the meantime Quinn shoots Jack a sympathetic glance as he comes out of the showers. Jack appreciates that Quinn takes up his spot on Jack's left on the bench even though the cameras are there to catch him in his underwear. 

Bammy makes good on his A again by giving Porridge an appropriately hard thump on the back in congratulations and singing the kid's praises, which thankfully draws away some of the media attention on Jack.

"Sure, sure," the guy continues when the noise settles a little, trying to get his interview back on track. "But winning Miss Candi here for a night on the town - it's a pretty great prize, hey? I mean, what guy wouldn't want a piece of that?"

Jack's smile dies a fast death. He looks at Candi and of course she's beautiful, but he's also not attracted to her. The thought of trying to pretend he is turns his stomach. He tries to muster something, but it all feels formless and dull and wrong. Even if he weren't gay… all he can hear in his head is what Shitty would say about any of this were he here.

He has to say something, so he looks the man square in the eye and says, "She's a person, not a prize."

The reporter laughs awkwardly, but Jack doesn't laugh, just turns away from him. Candi eases off Jack's shoulder as he says "Excuse me" for which she smiles a little uncertainly but genuinely at him as he uses the free space to slip out of his jersey, which has become uncomfortably warm now that he's off the ice. 

"Sure, but I mean, she's good company," the guy recovers somewhat. "Candi what's the plan for the night? Which hot spots will you be hitting tonight?"

Candi smiles for the camera and announces the when and where their publicity and events team has set up for the evening's exposure, and Jack starts in on his body armor during the brief reprieve. They talk about hashtags and twitter and Jack wonders briefly whether Eric would be following the night still. He'd followed them long enough to know when to call to escape risking talking to Jack directly. But then, that was to say goodbye.

He forces himself to smile as Candi and the guy wrap their little segment and congratulate him again on his awful playing. That done, they thankfully have enough sense to end that particular interview and move on to the grinning, delighted Porridge who blinks through sweaty exhaustion and blushes as the showgirl leans on his arm. 

The rest of the reporters give him enough of a break to strip out of his body armor, to get his overtired feet free of the layers of socks so that when he sits down again he's not swimming in his own sweat anymore, just cooling off through the ever-present underarmor. He nods his appreciation, even though it's as much to their own benefit to delay a few minutes with the noise being made by the promotional teams. But he'll take what he can get right now. 

"So, Jack, seems like your head must be doing good given how you skated tonight. Any concerns moving forward?" Terry, one of the hockey beat reporters asks, thankfully, shifting the tone back to normal hockey cadence.

"Yes, it's doing good. I didn't even think about it tonight," Jack agrees, touching his scalp reflexively, then also reflexively combing his fingers through his sweat soaked hair like there's any chance of making it respectable. "I don't see it having any impact at all."

"You've got a great away win percentage going now relative to your low wins at home," Cameron chimes in with. "Do you think those last two home game losses were affected by your absence, or is there something else going on that makes those home games different?"

He shakes his head and says, "It's early in the season to really look at that as a pattern. It was an intense away run for a variety of reasons, and coming off travel always changes the momentum. I don't think it's a sign of anything. The team played well without me. They were close losses." 

Not to mention that his personal life is apparently spilling onto the ice. In retrospect, perhaps it's good coach kept him scratched, even if for reasons other than his injury. Home doesn't quite fit on him the way it did before the Racers game, and he hasn't figured out how to deal with that yet.

"Well tonight certainly proved you've got the momentum back," Mina says. "What are you going to be looking for from your guys moving forward?"

Jack relaxes a little into the familiar patter from familiar faced. He's tired, but these people are hockey people at least and ask him mostly sensible hockey questions. They even let him get away with several canned answers about what the Falcs need, about how playing against a great team is always rewarding, relying on his wingers is what gets him goals, etc. because it is just an early game. Besides, strategically speaking he's a big enough fish now (has been for a while, really) that harassing him can earn them little as far as what he gives them down the line when the season heats up.

Still, he should have remembered playing the Aces means its celebrity news media mixed in with hockey beats because it lulls him into a false sense of security. It catches him off guard when the momentum shifts again quickly and without warning.

"So, Jack, you didn't seem too interested in a night out with Candi. Can we read into that? Any comment on the mystery girlfriend in the stands back in Atlanta?"

He stares at the unfamiliar woman holding the microphone from what looks to be a celebrity cable show a moment, then says, "What?"

She laughs and says, "Well, speculation was that the young woman you were talking to in the stands when you went out mid-game was our first glimpse of your latest fling."

Jack frowns and swallows back the irrelevant 'I talked to an old woman' and parses the rest of the question. 

"No. I don't have a girlfriend."

She looks unfazed though, pressing onwards with a teasing, "Ooh. So with no girlfriend, the ladies may still have hope of snagging you. Any secret hints-" 

Jack stares at her, and suddenly he's just far too tired to deflect, to drudge up another dutiful lie. Too tired of staying silent under a secret that makes him a _risk_. Of discovering belatedly he hadn't done something when it mattered. 

"No, they don't."

And maybe he _couldn't_ have before, but he can now.

There's a sudden clarity for him as he interrupts her question, like the way it feels when a puck hits his tape and it's flying towards the goal an instant later. That's not his team. He doesn't play for them. He never has, not willingly, and now he's in a position to make a play for the team he's actually on. The team he's maybe been letting down with his inaction.

Shitty, of course, would tell him he doesn't owe anyone that, but Jack personally thinks the million dollar contracts and public figure responsibilities mean otherwise. At least somewhat.

She blinks, and he can see her nose wrinkle like it doesn't compute, it's not in the hockey-bro script and her eyes dart to the others holding their microphones and cameras up too like she's not sure she heard him right.

"I'm not interested in dating women," Jack says, and he sees Quinn go still out of the corner of his eye where he's now answering questions one bench over. When he looks, Quinn is a little wide-eyed and Kumitz is standing a little ways beyond him, looking right back at Jack with his characteristically watchful D-man expression. 

Kumitz… doesn't look surprised. He looks ready to back Jack's play. He nods, and Jack feels something loosen in his chest.

It's going to be okay.

Jack looks back at her then, and just to be absolutely, unmistakably clear, he says, "I'm gay."

Silence spreads through the room in a fast wave of hissed shushing and soft murmurs as the news is repeated to people who hadn't heard him say it in the first place. The other reporters are staring at him in a mixture of awed, shocked, and eager faces as the microphones and cameras nudge closer.

The woman's mouth is actually hanging open in surprise, but to her credit, she recovers quickly with a professional smile. "Well, I'm sure a lot of your female fans are going to be disappointed to hear that," she says, sounding too deliberately chipper. It's not the worst thing to be.

"Yeah, but the gay fans are going to be hella thrilled," Bammy says, interrupting before she can follow up as he shuffles through the reporters to scrub a towel over Jack's head. "Come on Cap, are you done with your adoring public yet? We've got some drinks to get. Gotta toast the game-winner for Porridge."

Kumitz is already there too when Jack extricates himself from the towel, grabbing Jack's bag and generally annoying camera-people with his massive back getting in their way.

"Alright, guys, let's wrap this up for tonight," Hannity's saying to the reporters even though it's way premature and most of them seem inclined to ignore her. 

He doesn't look at her because he absolutely knows better than dropping something like this on PR and management without warning, especially in a low-news point in the season, but it's too late now.

Jack realizes only belatedly that his heart is pounding, that his hands are shaking as he slips into the trousers and then the jacket Quinn hands him, pulling it on over his still-damp under-armor. He stuffs his feet into his shoes and lets them nudge him upright. Kumitz slings a thick arm around his shoulders as Quinn sticks close to his other side. 

Hannity's having a little trouble wrangling the reporters by herself, but they're no match for the Falcs' top D-men. Especially not once other guys on the team start to form something of a wedge to keep people off him as his immediate protectors forge their way out from the benches and to the back halls, out where nobody yet knows what he's said. 

Nobody comes out behind them, but they set a pace that is quick but not quick enough to draw undue attention. Outside the locker rooms it's just the usual behind the scenes work going on. Service personnel, the dozens and maybe hundreds of people it takes to run a building this huge, to manage the fifteen thousand people or so that have all converged on one place to watch a game. Eyes do light up in places at the sight of them, but they're all too busy at work to come over.

Still, Bammy starts up a random "I shit you not" story like cover, like maybe that will keep anyone from thinking they can approach as they wind their way down the hall and into the tunnels that lead out of the place over by the visitors' transportation bay.

One set of double doors gets them away from the people. The transportation tunnels are long, featureless things, echoing with the sound of their footsteps. They're empty, but Jack still feels his heart thumping like he's being chased. Halfway down the tunnel Kumitz murmurs that they're almost there, as though Jack hasn’t been here dozens of time too, but it's still a relief to hear and as they turn the last corner. 

Jack sighs shakily at the thought of at least making it to the hotel without-

"Jesus, Jack, you're hopeless. You look like a fucking beatnik or whatever," Parse cackles as he pushes off the wall near the exit. 

He looks casual as ever but he must've showered fast to get out here ahead of everyone. To escape his own reporters. To catch Jack.

"He thinks it's sports-chic," Bammy chirps, grinning easily as he slips in between them, screening defense in charm and body so Jack can barely even see past him. "Good game tonight Parser. Mostly. Your elbow's still a sneaky bastard."

Kenny's nothing if not sharp-eyed though, and he drops his puckish demeanor almost immediately when he sees this, sees Jack's face up close and takes them in with Jack all wrapped up in their middle.

Quinn at least knows enough that he's already let go of Jack and stopped walking. Kumitz still has his arm around Jack's shoulders and is staring down Kent protectively, trying to nudge Jack along when Jack tries to stop too. 

"Hey Mittens," Kent drawls at Kumitz, because he's apparently just that much of an idiot thrill-seeker. Bammy's choked laugh is incredulous but Kent ignores him and asks, "Mind if I steal my boy Jack here for a minute?"

"Yes," Kumitz says flatly, looking about as moveable as a slab of granite.

Kenny snorts. "Okay you get that I'm not actually asking you, right?"

"It's okay, I… need to talk to him," Jack says, slowing up determinedly before Kumitz can decide whether he's going to get actually pissed.

"Jack," Kumitz begins warningly, not loosening his hold on Jack as Brian starts squaring up a little at Kenny for daring to use the forbidden nickname. Kent's mouth twitches a little in amusement even if his eyes go a little predatorily feline, measuring up the defenseman who's got half a foot and forty pounds on him like that isn't completely insane. But then, this is Kent, after all. He's been known to dare worse.

"Paul," Quinn interrupts softly, touching Kumitz's shoulder. " _Ils se connaissent depuis longtemps._ "

"Yeah," he mutters, finally letting go of Jack and turning to look back at the empty halls behind them. After a moment's consideration, Paul thumps Bammy's shoulder and the two of them move back, position themselves there, between Jack and Kent and the rest of the arena. Enough to be a good line of defense. 

"Maybe not the best place to dawdle though," is the parting caution.

Jack sighs and just steps close to Kenny, since it's not like he's willing to risk putting this off till they've got real privacy. That would require either too long a delay or them risking being seen somewhere together and that would only open Kent to more scrutiny than he deserves.

He says it quickly and bluntly because he doesn't know how else to do it right now. 

"I just came out, in the media scrum. I told them I'm gay."

Parse stares at him, then tips his head back on an incredulous laugh, the sound bouncing sharp off all the echoing planes of the hallway as he sags back against the wall again. 

"Oh, you _dick_ ," he breathes.

Bammy clears his throat in misplaced warning and Kent rolls his eyes but doesn't bother to correct the assumption. He just fixes his eyes on Jack again, sharp and expectant and, under these industrial lights, the color of a storm on the horizon.

Jack stares back. Steps closer and drops his voice. "I didn't say anything about-"

Parse scoffs noisily, fixing him with an unimpressed look. "Of course you didn't. But you have to know what it looks like _here_ , you asshole. After _that_ game."

"I'm sorry," Jack says quietly, hoping his face shows how much he means it. He has a suspicion it remains stiff despite himself. "I didn't think about where I was. I wasn't… but it's been a long time. I'm sure they'll take whatever you tell them."

Kenny still has that brittle, amused look on his face as he stares him down. Then, slowly, he says, "It had nothing to do with tonight at all, did it? I didn't even register."

Jack winces, because it's true, and terrible. Carelessly cruel. Again. 

"I didn't plan-"

"Fuck. Whatever," Kent says, dragging his fingers through his hair and pushing off the wall. "Whatever. It's your life. Nothing to do with me anymore, right?"

"Kenny," Jack tries, because that's not true. It's _not_.

Kent shrugs past the hand Jack has half reached out towards him, bristling tension furling around him like a coat of thorns.

"Gotta go call my agent. And my GM. And probably my mom. Shit. Well, good luck with that and thanks for the heads-up," he says, hands on his pockets as he saunters away, all poise and power. He winks at Kumitz and says, "Mittens," as he passes by, like he's just trying to prove he's enough of an asshole to be left alone. 

It works. He's off strolling away before Kumitz can do more than sigh and Quinn shoot him a worried look, every inch of him showcasing the untouchable brilliant veneer he's so carefully crafted over the years. Kent V. Parson.

It hurts letting him go, knowing he's failed him again.

"I'm starting to feel like I should have brought popcorn," Brian says, because he's an asshole, and Quinn punches his arm for it and adds a few choice words in french.

Jack laughs, short and sharp. And maybe also a little hysterical. 

"Ow. Well fine then. Allons-y, you fucks," Bammy says, but the arm he slings around Jack's shoulders is… not gentle, because that's not really in his physical vocabulary, but it isn't careless.

Kumitz doesn't comment, just leads the way out to the exterior door, guides their now-silent group through the loading bay and then down to one of the waiting taxi-vans. The staff know to have them ready since it's rare for a game in Vegas that much of any team collectively takes the bus back to the hotel. For once, Jack is grateful to be in Vegas for that reason. It means they can leave without having to wait.

They shuffle him into the back row of seats, flanked by Paul and Quinn while Brian climbs into the front seat and strikes up a brief polite conversation with their driver to get them underway. It mostly ends up registering as white noise as Jack concentrates on keeping his breathing steady and then stares out the tinted window as they pull smoothly into traffic.

It does look pretty at night, when you can't see the dirt and the discarded fliers for topless sex workers or smell the stale odors of piss and desperation. He hopes that's what Kent sees here, that he's able to take the good from it, though Jack doesn't know how he could. He hopes…

It's thankfully a short ride, and getting out of the van and up to the rooms to which they already have keys - at least, since someone grabbed his bag. He doesn't know how he'd've been able to handle this alone. His thoughts are a buzzing mess, cycling through the events of the day in rapid useless succession, gaining no purchase on anything at all. What just happened. What's going to happen. How it's going to happen. Who's going to react and how… 

"You weren't surprised," he says, glancing over at Kumitz once they've filed into his hotel room and started to spread out in pensive silence around Jack's space. There'd been no question, apparently, of anyone going anywhere else right now.

Paul looks at him, one thick brow lifting, made stark in the dim light of the ever-underwhelming hotel-room overhead. His expression indicates he is somewhat unimpressed by the observation.

"Well. I've known you a pretty long while now, Jack," he rumbles eventually.

"But…" Jack swallows, because he's not sure what to do with that. He's been… he _thought_ he'd been so _careful_. That he's kept contained and quiet what little intimate contact he's indulged in over these last few years.

Bammy turns from where he's sprawled over the second bed to reach the bedside lamp and makes an incredulous face at Jack. And yeah, Jack's realizing Brian hadn't so much as blinked either. 

His A's face does something a little amused and a little pitying as he contributes, "Jack, let's put it this way - I'm pretty sure none of the guys who were around for the first cup party at Mashkov's are going to be even remotely surprised. Except for Andrews, because he's about as observant as a brick."

Paul snorts. 

Brian smirks at him. "Because everyone had a hell of a night that night. You know. _Including_ Squiggles' hot bisexual indie rock star older brother. And you."

Fuck. He hadn't realized anyone had seen them making out behind… beside? Somewhere in relation to Tater's poolhouse. He remembers the guy, but… Jack grimaces, the paucity of those few spotty memories he has of that wild night obviously telling in retrospect. It figures he'd also forgotten to be careful. It'd been the goddamned _cup_ party, after all. Just then, he'd believed he could have everything. 

"Besides," Kumitz adds, turning a somewhat withering look over at Quinn. "Despite what you two dumbasses appear to think, a lot of people in the league know enough french to muddle through a simple sentence or three. And _you_ run your mouth."

Jack swallows. It's simultaneously terrifying and also vastly relieving to know there have already been people watching his back when he didn't even know he was relying on them to.

"Merde," Quinn mutters, looking somewhere between mortified and defensively disdainful as he perches on one of the hideously stylish armchairs. He flicks an awkward glance at Jack and mumbles. "Well, I suppose it's moot now."

Jack laughs again, no less hysterically than before. He can't help but curl in on himself a bit, his face nestled on his palms. The whole of his world is going to know soon. He doesn't regret it, he can feel that much fairly clearly, but that doesn't mean he's looking forward to the rest of it.

"Hey," Paul says softly, broad hand landing warm and comforting on the back of Jack's neck, where his shoulders are knotted together. "Like you always say, we've got your back, okay?"

His intake of breath is shaky. He does say that, at least, he has for the past seven years. He's tried to live it. He hopes he has. They let him sit in silence for a minute, just breathing, just trying to be okay with it.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay," he says eventually and makes himself straighten up, makes himself shake back some of the anxiety that threatens to spiral in him if he dwells on the what-ifs and the failures.

"So. Speaking of letting people have your back. I hate to say it but you should probably get some calls made," Paul says, frowning a little ruefully at him as he gives him another thump on the back and then lets go of him. 

Jack wrinkles his face, but nods. "Right."

"If you don't want to do them, we can help," Brian adds from where he's lying on the second bed, slowly spinning his phone around on his stomach.

Jack tries not to grimace too visibly at the thought of what sort of "help" Bammy might end up giving him, but thinking about calling more than a few people right now…

"I'm going to call my parents," he says, because that much he has to do. "And… coach. Galimov, too, I guess," he says, though he winces. That last one is going to be unpleasant at best, but as captain, he's got to call the GM personally, even if he'd much rather let someone else do it. "I don't know if I can do much more than that right now."

He's not actually sure he can do any of that right now, really.

Paul twists his mouth in sympathy. "Okay. I can check in with Hannity for you, if you'd like? Just get a bead on where she's at with things and let her know you're all good here. I can also ask her to make me the point of contact for you, for right now at least. For PR info or whatever comes up. I can relay."

Relief floods his chest at the thought. He nods firmly and gratefully as he runs his knuckles over his solar plexus, trying to not knot up again. It doesn't really work, because he's also thinking about what he's going to say to their GM. No player, not even the face of a franchise, is 100% safe from the ides of the business of hockey, and the GM is the primary arbiter of that.

He's made a reckless play tonight. 

"I should maybe do the A thing and touch base with all the guys," Brian adds, no sign of his usual mischief on his face. His eyes are soft and serious. "You know, make sure none of them get sideswiped by a reporter while they're out tonight if they didn't hear about it already… If that's okay. I know you'll want to talk to them yourself later but…" 

"Yeah. Let's… do that," Jack agrees, scrubbing his hands over his face and trying not to feel like a failure as a captain for doing that - because he definitely can't handle calling the whole team right now, but that also needs to happen. Which is why there are As in the first place. 

"Okay. Anything else we're thinking right now?"

He pulls out his phone and goes to the call history, ready to scroll down to find Galimov's number, he doesn't make it that far. In fact, he more or less grinds to a halt as soon as it opens the list, staring at the unknown number of his last received call. 

He hasn't thought about it for the last forty minutes, but suddenly all of it rushes back to the forefront of his mind. It's almost surreal now, thinking about Eric, about everything that's happened since Atlanta and how different it all is to what his life was just a month ago. 

He swallows, his throat feeling too thick and too dry. He didn't say it because of Eric, he _didn't_ … but. That doesn't mean there isn't still a part of him that's…

Did he make himself less of a risk, even? Or more? 

"We can give you some privacy, if there's… someone else you need to call."

He looks up from his phone at Quinn's dark eyes, his solemn and almost tentative expression. He's been abnormally quiet since the arena, now that Jack thinks about it. There's a question in his eyes, a hesitancy and other more complicated things Jack can't put a name to just now.

Jack shakes his head.

"Jack," Quinn says, a hint of reproach coming through in his voice.

Jack huffs out a short breath and makes a face, because yeah, there _is_ someone else he wants to call. He just doesn't actually have the option of doing so.

And maybe he even shouldn't. Maybe that's not his place.

"I can't," he says, and when Quinn's face tightens and the others start looking concerned, he just repeats himself, "I can't," as he flicks down to the GM's number and hits call to forestall any further conversation on that tack.

Quinn's calling him a few mildly rude things in french as the number dials, but it's quiet and it's easily ignored when after just a couple rings he's greeted with a gruff, "Здравствуй, Jack."

"Добрый вечер, sir," he says in kind, though it comes out more mangled than usual. He swallows, because his throat has gone completely dry and his heart is racing. But then, it is one of the most difficult and important phone calls of his career.

"Sorry to call so late, but-"

"Yes, I have heard." Galimov cuts in with, brusque and impatient as usual, not sounding any more annoyed than he normally is. "Ms. Hannity has already called, explained you have said to the media that you are gay, yes?" 

"Yes," Jack says.

"Have you anything different you would want to add, or did you just call to tell me this too?"

"Mostly the second one, sir." Jack takes a breath and says, "And that I won't apologize for what I said; I won't take it back. I am sorry that it was sudden and will make more work for people. It was unplanned."

Galimov hums. "Yes, this is what surprises me. Odd for you, I think. I ask Hannity if she's sure she say right person."

Jack doesn't know what to say to that, because it's true. But he's not going to undermine himself any more than he already has by making such an impulsive choice in the first place. He knows he should be saying more, doing more to act like a professional but his mind is running blank.

"Yes, well, nothing else?" Galimov says into the silence. "No? Then, it's good you called, thank you, but it is enough for now. Tomorrow plans will be made, conversations will be had. Many opinions, most of which will not matter, as this is not about hockey. For now, you must take some rest."

He doesn't say anything else, and Jack stares at his hand, surprised - perhaps more than he should be. Galimov has always been fair and reasonable, for a GM. Ruthless, when necessary, but never petty or cruel. Still, there are reasons he's kept silent for so long. All the fears that have not come to pass are still churning in his throat, just waiting to spill over. He tries to swallow them back, to just say his farewells and let it go as good enough.

"That's it?" Jack blurts despite himself. 

Galimov sighs, sounding tired as his accent lays heavy over his words as he says simply, "Yes, that is all. That is all." 

He doesn't elaborate, but it's not dismissive, not rejecting, though there's a certain weight to the words, a tone that tells Jack that his GM understands, that he isn't missing what Jack means. He sounds almost sad.

"Okay. Спасибо. До свидания," he offers quietly.

"Спокойной ночи," is the reply, and then the abrupt silence of an ended call.

Jack stares at his phone a moment, then glances up to find the others watching him, each of them motionless and intent. Quinn's lips twist in sympathy and brows lift in question and Jack nods a little.

"Okay," he says. "That went okay."

Bammy sighs out a breath like he'd been holding it and then swings to his feet and gets off the bed with his phone in hand. He smacks his fist into Jack's shoulder on his way towards the balcony. Paul gets up too, his own phone on his ear as he heads towards the far corner saying, "Yeah, I've got him. He's in his hotel room talking to Galimov and then the coaches and family."

Quinn just remains where he's sitting perched on the chair, legs folded up, staring at nothing. 

The call to the coaches is easier. Rheems is apparently within spitting distance of Forth, so he's treated to both of them on speakerphone before he can even say anything, both of them firmly establishing their support and then including him in a brief discussion about how the likely impending media flurry is going to impact training and their next few games - which is to say, they're not planning on letting it and they'll just be focusing on business as usual. There's little said after that. He gets the feeling that Rheems might have already been anticipating something, given the way things have been going. He wouldn't be the coach that he is if he hadn't noticed even subtle changes in Jack's behavior.

Plus, apparently, half the organization has known for a while. He tries not to think about that part.

It leaves him with the call that's simultaneously the easiest and the most difficult. He wishes he could dawdle, but the clock is already creeping close to midnight and his parents are further east than he is right now, and they'll be asleep. Nobody likes the distress of getting a call in the middle of the night, but he doesn't want to risk waiting and letting someone else get ahold of them first. 

The first time he calls it rings all the way through to voicemail, and he hangs up and dials it again. The second time, his mom answers on the tail of the first ring.

"Jack?" she says, her voice dulled with sleep but rising with concern. 

"Maman, I'm okay. Everything's alright, okay? Nobody's hurt," he says immediately. In the corner of his eye he sees Quinn put his hand over his eyes and turn his head away.

He hears her pause, and then there's the soft rustling and muffled voice in the background as she wakes up his dad too. He can hear her breathing and it's shaky, but her voice is calm when she says, "Alright Jack, honey. We're here."

He closes his eyes and leans his forehead on his fist because it's easier that way, imagining he can do like he used to as a child curled up on her lap and leaning his face on her shoulder till it all seemed less overwhelming.

"I'm sorry to call so late. It's just that… I came out," he says, still in English because it's easier for her when she's just woken. Even though he's told her before, years ago, it's still hard to say after so long spent not even thinking about it. "This reporter just kept saying these things about me having a girlfriend and I just couldn't… anymore. So I told her I'm gay. On camera. So that's… that."

She breathes out fast and short and her voice is shaky but he can hear there's something of a smile in it when she says, "Okay. Are you alright? Is this… are you glad you said it?"

"I… maybe. I'm not sure yet. It was… I didn't plan to. I guess I've been thinking about some things lately, about relationships and…" He's not sure he wants to prod that wound just now, though, so he drops it. Shifts gears. "Anyway, I'm sorry. They're probably going to bother you over this a lot."

The phone rustles a little and he hears his dad say, " _Ne t’excuse pas. Nous sommes si fiers de toi._ "

"We love you so much," his mom adds, tears apparent in her voice. "Besides. This is just more excuse for us to brag about you."

He huffs a breath, swiping at the dampness on his face. 

" _Merci_ ," he says.

"Sweetheart, where are you now?" his mom asks after a moment.

"The hotel," he says, and before she can ask, says, "It's fine. I'm fine. And I've got Quinn and Paul and Brian with me too."

Paul comes back into the bedroom area, gives Jack a nod that says everything's handled there. Jack watches as he heads for Quinn and nudges him with his knee, saying, "Go help Brian make calls."

Quinn wrinkles his nose, but he gets up obediently as Paul bends over the mini-bar and fishes out a bottled water, which he tosses Jack's direction. 

"Would it be… would you like it if I came down?" his mom says.

"We're on the road right now."

She laughs at him a little, and he rolls his eyes at himself in agreement. As if a little travel has ever been anything to slow her down.

"No, I don't think so," he says, curling the water bottle up in his hands. He feels… okay. Although he's starting to realize how tired he is. "Thank you, _maman_."

"Oh, baby, of course. Well, we'll let you get some rest. But if you change your mind."

" _Tu peux nous demander tout ce dont tu as besoin_ ," his father adds.

" _Ouais_ ," he murmurs. " _Merci_." 

" _Au revoir_."

He replies the same, hangs up the phone and sighs out a heavy breath, but the world doesn't feel quite as heavy as it had before the calls.

"Drink. Food should be up by the time you get out of the shower," Paul says, tossing Jack's toiletry kit onto the bed along with a change of clothes. 

"Any more calls you need to make?"

"He broke things off," he hears himself admitting, even though that's probably not what Paul had meant. Even though it's not quite right. That makes it sound like more than it was, but he doesn't have a better way to say it. He shrugs. "His phone… I couldn't call him even if I thought he would want me to."

Paul's face softens immediately, his cinder-block of a hand coming up to rest on Jack's shoulder.

"It wasn't about him," Jack says. He doesn't really believe it any more this time than he had earlier.

"Yeah. I imagine it's a lot of things," Paul says easily. "Most things are."

Jack looks away, shakes his head at himself. "Okay. I'm gonna-" He tips his head towards the bathroom, reaches for his things. 

Paul knuckles his hair, then sits down on the bed and turns on the TV, switching it to whatever random action show is on TNT this time of night. 

"We'll be here."

Jack nods, an ache in his chest as he carries himself off to the polished marble of the bathroom. He's surrounded by so much care, and while he knows there will be worse to come, it could have been so much worse tonight. And then all he can think about is how Eric hadn't had enough… about whether Eric has anyone-

No. 

Like Kenny had said… that's nothing to do with him anymore.

He looks at himself in the mirror, at the pale blue of his eyes in such sharp contrast to the shadows clinging to his tense features. At the lines he's added in the passing years, the loss of any softness of youth he'd had left by the time he'd joined the league. Whatever bubble of history they'd carved out between them, they're different people now, and Eric's made his choice.

And now he's made one of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to come yell with me over hockey or other things on tumblr I'm [trilliath](http://trilliath.tumblr.com) there too.
> 
> Thank you Eprah for helping me improve these!  
> Translations:  
> Suce ma bite, Parson - Suck my dick, Parson  
> Quand tu veux, chéri - Whenever you want, babe  
> Ils se connaissent depuis longtemps - They have a history / they've known each other a long time  
> Здравствуй - Hello (more formal)  
> Добрый вечер - good evening  
> Спасибо. До свидания - thank you, goodbye  
> Спокойной ночи - good night  
> Ne t’excuse pas. Nous sommes si fiers de toi.- Don't apologize. We are so proud of you  
> Tu peux nous demander tout ce dont tu as besoin - you can ask us for anything you need


End file.
